


Crown to Rust

by Xenosangui



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: (please don't let the temporary character death tag bother you. it's very temporary), Aftermath of Torture, BAMF Merlin (Merlin), Balinor Lives (Merlin), Canon Era, Curses, Did I say slow burn? I meant glacial, Exile, F/M, Flashbacks, Gen, Identity Reveal, Infallible Narrator, Kidnapping, Knight!Gilli, Knight!Will, M/M, Magic Revealed, Merlin is a Self-Sacrificing Idiot, No beta we die like illiterates, Prince Merlin (Merlin), Protective Arthur, Rituals, Royal Merlin (Merlin), Royalty AU, Secret Identity, Slow Burn, Temporary Character Death, Torture, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:35:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 37,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26116552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xenosangui/pseuds/Xenosangui
Summary: Kidnapped and banished at a young age, Merlin is a prince without a crown or kingdom. Though raised with magic and sword by his side, he faces a tumultuous path that takes him to Camelot and brings with it a destiny he never believed in. But at every turn he faces the consequences of his actions, unwilling as they might be, and his two secrets—magic and his dusty title— have never been close to tearing apart the life he built for himself in Camelot until a letter finds its way into Arthur's hands.And the two lives Merlin has led begin to bleed together.
Relationships: Balinor/Hunith (Merlin), Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 92
Kudos: 542





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, this fic is scrounged up from the recesses of my computer, but it is finished! I do plan on posting on a schedule (every Friday), because it needs some serious editing and I only have so much time during my busy schedule. 
> 
> The first chapter is crazy short (mostly because my prologues are always that way; we'll call it a personal character flaw), but all other chapters should be closer to the 4k mark.
> 
> Please note that this was written with a long gap between watching the show and writing the fic...we're talking years so the timeline will be a little strange. 
> 
> See bottom notes for some clarification.

It was swift, it was just, another wave of a miracle  
But no one, nothing at all would go for the kill  
If they called one very soul in the land on the move  
Only then would they know a blessing in disguise

The curse ruled from the underground down by the shore  
And their hope grew with a hunger to live unlike before  
**The Curse – Agnes Opal**

* * *

Oft, one finds destiny to be a troublesome and meddlesome thing.

Emrys, the Great Warlock who was to be born when magic was being banished from the land, was predicted to be a certain type of man—that was known. He would be strong in the magical arts, but one did not need to be a seer to know such a thing. Of course, he would be wise when he finally led those who practiced magic, and he would be powerful in every way a man could be.

A druid, he would most likely be, a great majority of those with magic thought, because _who_ would know magic better than one who grew up within a druid camp? Who else could be compassionate enough to aid them at such a great cost to himself? Who else could possibly have the power they needed to stand strong, even as the King of Camelot took his stance against magic, determined to wipe it from his Kingdom and all other kingdoms that he sought to stretch considerable his power into?

Or perhaps, Emrys would be an innocent child, unaware of the power the rose within his bones until it consumed him—giving him the strength of mind and magic much later in life?

 _No, a druid,_ they would whisper to themselves when the foreign thought first came to mind, _he must be a druid. That is what is best._

But rarely is it that what is thought to be best by the masses actually best—for the great and wise Emrys was neither a Druid nor a normal child.

He was much more than that.

 _Far_ more.

And Destiny had a plan for him that would shake two distinct kingdoms to their very core.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much happened the same as in canon with a few small changes. This takes place a little after season 4, but the episode concerning Balinor never occurred. Otherwise, everything else is the same. No one, not even Gaius, knows that Merlin is a prince. Ealdor never came to Camelot for help, because Hunith isn’t there. Gwen is neither the queen, nor a romantic interest for Arthur.
> 
> Each chapter will be accompanied by a small (usually non-invasive) quote from a song on the playlist I developed over the course of writing this fic. Usually the chosen quote has relevant meaning for the chapter in some capacity, but feel free to ignore them if it's not something you enjoy seeing in a story.


	2. Chapter One

I am the voice of the past that will always be  
Filled with my sorrow and blood in my fields  
I am the voice of the future, bring me your peace  
Bring me your peace, and my wounds, they will heal

I am the voice in the wind and the pouring rain  
I am the voice of your hunger and pain  
I am the voice that always is calling you  
The Voice – Celtic Woman

* * *

Much like destiny, life goes as one might not expect it to.

 _Perhaps, that's my problem,_ Merlin thought wryly to himself, as he hoisted a couple of buckets of water up the stairs to his Royal Pratness's Chambers, _I'm listening to the dragon too much. I'm starting to think in riddles._

But, really, who could blame him? His arms absolutely ached and Arthur's demands for a bath—he'd only had one the day before after all, how many baths did one _really_ need even if one was the king of Camelot?—were not helping. It had been a bad day, starting from that morning when he was awoken by the shock of cold water being thrown over him, only to see Arthur of all people standing over him triumphantly, bucket in hand, and an obnoxious smirk on his face. “You're _late_ , _Mer_ lin. And just as useless as ever, of course.”

It had been a terrible start, and he hadn't so much as a moment to recover from the sudden coldness that invaded his bones— _and where had Arthur gotten ice-cold water anyway?_ —before the king listed out several chores that Merlin was too tired to even think about completing. Then, as though finally seeing Merlin rather stupefied face and the eyes that stared up at him with complete bafflement, Arthur smiled widely, clapping his manservant on the back and told him to also prepare the supplies for an impromptu hunting trip.

They would leave mid-afternoon.

Merlin watched the king he was somehow was obligated to protect (though, honestly, it had stopped being an obligation so many years ago, when they crossed that fragile boundary between tolerating one another's presence and tentative friendship) as he left, the wooden door closing roughly, leaving Merlin to his thoughts.

A hunt. _Of course_. Between the patrols Arthur felt he had to complete because he was the king, and the hunts he went on at almost a rate that was obscene, Merlin rarely had a moment of peace. It was very rare that the hunt or patrol would end well—in fact, he couldn't remember going on a single one that didn't leave him, one of the Knights, or Arthur himself, injured, near death, or in a situation that put the whole of Camelot on the verge of being destroyed.

Hunts were the worst, by far. Even if they managed to avoid bandits and sorcerers who believed that killing Arthur was the best way to get revenge on Uther, then Merlin would be the one stuck carrying whatever kills Arthur made back to Camelot. As if he didn't hate the killing itself enough. _At least,_ Merlin thought to himself bitterly, _Arthur learned his lesson about innocent magical creatures. I won't have to defend another unicorn._

The hunt had not been as bad as it could have been, Merlin supposed as he looked back on the day, dumping the buckets of water in the tub and staring at it in dismay. At least three more trips, he guessed, steeling his battered arms for the next few loads.

Arthur was satisfied, at least, having caught a stag and a few rabbits within the first hour. The bandits they came across on the way back to Camelot were unfortunate, but the rogue group of outlaws were clearly not expecting the king, for they were few in number and their skill left much to be desired. Between the young king's talent with a sword, and Merlin's help (from behind a very conveniently placed tree), they were easily dispatched.

The two of them returned to Camelot early enough that Arthur decided that Merlin was not going to be allowed to slack from that day’s chores and eagerly put him to work—starting with a bath. Again.

Merlin winced as he filled the buckets once more, rubbing his right shoulder and glancing meaningfully behind him to make sure no other servant caught his moment of weakness. The servants of Camelot were gossips and the last thing Merlin needed was for word to get around to Arthur that he was acting weak.

Or injured.

He could see that conversation going well— “How did you manage to get hurt, standing behind a tree, Merlin? Did the tree jump back in fright? Or did you fall over yourself whilst trying to hide?”

Granted, Arthur had no clue that there was another bandit in the forest. Merlin was distracted enough, what with protecting Arthur from a bandit that had somehow managed to momentarily gain the upper hand, that he hadn't noticed either—not until a sharp pain in his right shoulder forced his eyes away from his king, and to the bandit with rather poor aim, simultaneously blasting him into a tree without a word and pulling a thin throwing dagger from his shoulder. He threw it to the ground, quickly healing the wound just enough that he wouldn't bleed to death before reaching the castle.

It was a rather superficial wound, and was now wrapped, after he'd received the disapproving eye from Gaius—and the rather typical, _you must be more careful, Merlin—_ but the chores were aggravating the wound more than he expected them to.

He finished heating the last bucket of water not long after, wincing and bidding Arthur a good night before the clotpole could attempt to foist another job off on him. He would do the rest in the morning, somehow. Perhaps some subtle magic...

When he collapsed into bed that night, not even bothering to pull the covers over him, he wondered how _this_ became his life. _A servant,_ of all things, to the King of Camelot. Once, there had been so much more expected of him. Much like Arthur, he'd had a role to play—a life where he'd been depended on by an entire kingdom.

A life he'd been forced to give up.

He groaned, flipping onto his back and staring at the ceiling, suddenly far too awake to even contemplate getting any proper sleep. Which really was a quite shame, because Arthur was likely thinking up plenty of extra chores for not finishing the ones given today. The absolute clot.

Memories—things he'd long since forgotten or forced to the recesses of his mind—suddenly sprang forward with a frightening velocity. People he once knew—his mother, his father, and all the people he'd let down over the years.

Sometimes he wondered. Did they think he was alive or dead? A coward or victim of circumstances that they couldn't possibly know about? Deep down, Merlin knew that they couldn't know about the curse. So, hopefully, they all thought he was dead.

Because he was no coward.

He desperately clung to the hope that they knew that—knew that there was no way he would ever leave of his own free will when so many people depended on him.


	3. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first chapter that essentially acts as a flashback. These are interspersed throughout the story (every other chapter or so) to give you some perspective of Merlin's life between his "exile" and when he steps foot into Camelot. 
> 
> You'll be able to recognize by the short phrase "the lost years" which I will include at the beginning of each of these chapters

Don't shed a tear for me  
I stand alone  
This path of destiny  
Is all my own  
Once in the hands of fate  
There is no choice  
An echo on the wind  
You'll hear my voice...  
**Village Lanterne—Blackmore’s Night**

* * *

_The lost years..._

He was six years old when there was the first attempt on his life. He remembered it as well as could be expected from a young child, according to his parents. But he always remembered, much better than they thought and with a clarity that they knew nothing of.

The man was large, he remembered. Probably over six feet tall with broad shoulders, dark hair, and eyes that glistened in the darkness. He was rather plain overall, with no features that would set him apart from another. Merlin could have walked past the man the next morning and never known, if not for the rather distinguishable scar that ran down the man's face—from right eyebrow to the left side of his chin. The child shivered at the remembered sight.

Maybe Merlin would have been able to remember more of the man who would come to be one of the many reasons for the changing and rearranging of his entire life, but he'd only had mere moments to take in the dark hair and the equally dark, gleaming eyes—as well as the horrific expression of pure, untempered hatred that shone on his face—before the young boy caught sight of the small but deadly blade in his hands. Without a thought, Merlin's eyes blazed gold with the instinctual magic he’d possessed since birth and the would-be-assassin flew across the room, crashing into the opposite wall with a loud thump that echoed through his chambers. Merlin scrambled from under the deep blue covers, trying to get as far away as possible even as his breath seemed to catch in his throat.

In this case, that meant the opposite corner, still protected partially by his bed.

What felt like ages later, but really only could have been seconds, the doors to his chambers crashed open, revealing the face of a frantic guard who was already red-faced from exertion, followed closely by Merlin’s mother and father.

Hunith immediately caught sight of her son and ran towards him, but Balinor steadied his expression and sent the guard for additional help as he knelt over the still body, carefully freeing the dagger from the assassin's lax grip.

“Merlin?” His mother dropped to her knees beside him and he found his wide eyes drawn away from the strange man who'd appeared in his chambers so suddenly. “Are you hurt? Did he harm you?”

The words seemed far away, and Merlin's eyes once more landed on his father and the man who was going to kill him.

“Merlin?”

He forced his eyes away again, shaking his head, but his eyes were full of questions. “Mother?” He muttered, finally, and noticed the reinforcement guards arrive, as well as several knights. “Why did he try to hurt me? What did I do?”

“Shh,” Hunith murmured, her eyes locking with Balinor's from across the room. Their eyes spoke stories, but none that Merlin could read quite yet. “You've done nothing wrong, my son. He was a very bad man, and he will never be able to get to you again.”

Two of the guards gripped the assassin under the arms and dragged him from the room. A couple of the knights followed, their hands on their swords, while one knight remained alone in the room with the family. The door slammed with a finality that made Merlin jump, but he was momentarily comforted by the fact that a few of the guards were likely standing outside his door one guard. They always were.

But how had the man gotten into his room then?

Hunith pulled her only son forward, into his arms in a rather desperate hug, and Merlin relaxed into the embrace as exhaustion finally started to get the better of him. Sleep sunk into his bones. He heard his father footsteps as he came closer, and felt the shadow fall over him as his father knelt, ruffling his hands through his son's hair.

“How did this happen?” Hunith asked quietly, her own fingers combing through his hair. “He's supposed to be safe here, Balinor. These are his rooms.”

“We'll investigate, of course. The assassin still lives. When he wakes, he will be questioned.” Balinor said firmly, his hand resting on the sword by his side, eyes narrowed. He was thinking deeply, but his train of thought was clear to all.

“They came after Merlin. Not you nor I, but my baby.”

“I cannot begin to think what he hoped to achieve. Nothing immediate, that is evident. If so, then he would have gone after I. That, or whoever planned this hoped this would cripple me emotionally.” Balinor sighed to himself, “It will not go unpunished. He will be sentenced with an attempt against the crown and high treason once we learn whether or not he works alone.”

Hunith closed her eyes, taking a deep breath to steady her nerves, then looked down at her son, who already slept, “I do not like this.”

“Nor I,” Balinor agreed, nodding in agreement. “I will increase the guards and talk to Bron about additional enchantments and protective bindings in the morning. It does not bode well for any of us that this man made it into Merlin's chambers without so much as an alarm.”

The man never said a word about any accomplices or future plans because he was found dead in his cell the next morning. Very little could be done about the misfortune, and when the court physician declared the assassin’s death to be an apparent suicide, there was an unspoken rule not to mention the entire event again, though the increased number of guards remained outside the young boy's door.

Not two weeks after, six guards who had been tasked with patrolling one of the main corridors in the castle were found dead, without so much as a mark on any of them. With a bit of checking, they discovered the guards were those that spent the most amount of time guarding Merlin’s chambers. A week later, it was two of Balinor's most loyal knights—found in one of the little-used Chambers with identical stab wounds through their chests. A month after, an intruder was seen in Hunith and Balinor's chambers, but was never caught.

The next morning, one of the council members was found dead in his bed, once more without a mark anywhere on him.

“There must be a spy in court.” Balinor concluded in the privacy of his own chambers, only accompanied by his own family. Hunith's stress showed clearly—even Merlin, the only other person in the room, was quiet and attentive.

“This is ridiculous.” Merlin heard his father say later that night, when he thought Merlin was finally asleep. “I am the king. This is my castle, my kingdom, my family. How can I protect any of that, if I can't even figure out what's happening?”

It was the first time Merlin had ever seen his father so unsure...so insecure.

Yet after the initial few months, the attacks slowed dramatically and none within the castle fully succeeded. There were several more deaths, but they were prevented for the most part. The royal family relaxed, though they never forgot completely. There was a weakness within their kingdom—and they'd never found it.

When Merlin turned seven, he began to learn to learn more about his role as prince of Dracæne. At eight, he learned to fight with smaller weapons and bows—and Bron was beginning to teach him how to control the magic that strained beneath his skin, wanting to be used. At nine, he picked up a sword for the first time, and took the steps necessary to learn to protect his people. Swordsmanship was a particularly difficult skill for him to learn, with his long somewhat oddly shaped limbs that he had yet to grow into and the fact that they never wanted to cooperate with the rest of him.

He was far from incompetent though, after a couple of years of practice and intensive training—and he was a very quick learner. Within a few years, he was one of the better swordsmen in the Kingdom, though he was far from flawless—but he was far more superior with daggers and the throwing knives. With those, he never missed a target.

Merlin was nearing his thirteenth winter when everything changed. Sorcerers were rarely an issue in Dracæne—they were the most tolerant kingdom towards sorcerers. After Uther of Camelot banned magic, the other four surrounding kingdoms quickly did the same, with only Dracæne still allowing the use of magic freely after only four years. Sorcerers generally flocked to Balinor's kingdom for refuge—none had ever launched an attack against the only king that accepted their talents.

But that day, it was an army of sorcerers, dozens strong, that blew apart the gates and stormed the castle grounds. At first, it seemed to be an ill-planned attack, with an army of sorcerers that were generally lacking in talent and were attempting to compensate for their blatant absence of skill with sheer numbers, but three days into the siege, it became apparent as to how much they underestimated the magical army. They were not strong, but they were led well by a sorceress who was clearly the power of the operation.

The invaders had a plan—one that Balinor and his advisers couldn't even begin to guess.

A little under a week into the siege, Merlin stood quietly next to his father, as Balinor addressed his council. Lord Grantren, an older man who once served as a knight, but had been forced to resign the position early after an injury to his hand that made it impossible for him to hold a sword properly for any amount of time and, as such, was not known for his patience, spoke, “We have no means of fending this army off. Whenever we fell one, another steps up to take his place! They have soldiers and sorcerers alike, as well as information that no one outside the castle is privy to.”

“I think it’s safe to say that this attack has been long in the making.” Balinor said quietly, though with a fierce look in his eye that made Merlin gut twist in envy. Balinor was a great king, who demanded the respect of everyone around him with only a glance and he was well respected by the people. Sometimes, Merlin wondered if he would ever be able to step into his father's shoes and fill them. “We cannot dwell on what is done. We must decide what we must do now.”

“This army,” One of the younger lords, one that Merlin couldn't put a name to, stepped forward hesitantly, and Balinor motioned for his to speak, “they wear the same sigil that has been seen on the invaders and assassins spotted within these walls for years.” Balinor nodded in agreement and the young lord continued, “And their primary target has always been Prince Emrys, has it not?”

Merlin frowned, disliking where the conversation was heading. Even worse was the use of his official name—of course, very few knew that his name was actually Prince Merlin Emrys Ambrose, only knowing his second name, Emrys. Once, he had asked why his second name was that given in court, but he'd never been given a real answer. His mother's reply had been only that one of the greatest Seer's had warned against using his first name, shortly after he'd been born.

Hardly an answer, but his parents were wary of disrupting fate and destiny.

“And your point?” Balinor asked, snapping Merlin out of his thoughts and back to the present. Balinor was motioning for the man—no, boy—to hurry his words.

“They have been attempting to...kill, or at the very least apprehend the Prince for years. Would it not be wise to send him somewhere safe, to ensure the continuation of the royal line? To ensure the Prince’s safety?” The lord finished quickly, looking much too nervous.

Merlin straightened at the suggestion, his eyebrows furrowing in repressed anger. “I will not leave. You can't ask me to do that. Not when I'm depended on.”

“Emrys.” Balinor scolded him lightly, though not harshly. “I'm sorry, but it is an option that I must entertain, if only briefly.”

“I want to fight.”

“And you will. But now, whether you like it or not, you are still a child. No one expects you to fight at your age. And you are powerful—a powerful child that they would be all too happy to get their hands on.” Merlin opened his mouth to argue, but Balinor shook his head abruptly. “We will discuss this later—”

Suddenly, the doors to the council chambers flew open to reveal a knight clad in the royal blue robes that distinguished him from the attackers. He was winded, but he managed to get his message out, in between short breaths, “Sire, they have broken past our defenses.”

Balinor stood in alarm, nodding to the council in dismissal before following the messenger. Merlin's mother, who had been silent until then, grabbed Merlin's shoulder as he made a move to follow, “Your father will deal with this. You need to get to your chambers and barricade yourself within for the moment. Garrell will take you.” She looked pointedly at one of the younger Knights who had proved himself well on the field.

Merlin gritted his teeth, knowing better than to argue, and nodded his assent. Whether he liked it or not, he had to obey. Unfortunately, it was not the time to get in his mother and father's way.

He left the room quickly, knowing Sir Garrell was on his heels. There were no signs of the battle this far into the castle, but even behind several walls, he could hear the sounds of dying men and the crashes of spells hitting the outer walls.

They were only a few doors away from his chambers when he heard Garrell's strangled shout of alarm, then the sound of flesh and metal hitting the stone floor. He spun around, already reaching for the sword that never left his side, but suddenly there was a large arm around his throat, choking him, and a gloved hand over his mouth to prevent him from calling for help or muttering a spell.

His eyes landed on the knight that tasked with protecting him for only a moment—he saw the glazed, sightless eyes and the large wound through his stomach—dead on the ground. Magic was the last thing on his mind as he realized someone else was dead, killed protecting him. Belatedly, he felt the ring that announced him as heir apparent being ripped from his finger before a sharp pain stabbed through his head, lighting his world on fire and paralyzing his words.

“Put these in his room. And get rid of that.” Merlin blinked thrice, trying to shake away the pain as he heard those last words, and darkness shrouded the edge of his vision and numbed his thoughts.

Finally, he sunk into a peaceful unconsciousness—his eyes catching on the cloaked figures that surrounded him—and the one that was heading for his chambers in the last seconds before everything was lost.

* * *

When he awoke, it was to a deep ache in his both his head and arms. At first, sleep clouded his thoughts, and he wondered why his arms were stretched taunt above him, bearing his entire weight. It was really uncomfortable, so why was he in such a position?

It took a few moments, but the memories of the past few hours rushed back to him and fatigue was banished from his thoughts as he forced himself to wake up fully in order to take in his surroundings. 

It was a cave, but one so dark he could only make out whatever was within a few feet of him. With every breath he took, water seemed to flood his lungs, seeming to suffocate him for a few moments. It wasn't a cave he'd ever been to before—the water meant he was near a large river, or the sea, outside Dracæne.

He shifted, then winced as his wrists protested the movement, screaming in pain. How long had he been there, really? He was deep in a cave, and even if it was mid-afternoon, how was he to know it?

Merlin's eyes took one more scan of the cave—damp, grey walls, and an even damper floor—as he reached for his magic. And reached. But the magic slipped through his fingers like sand, pulling away from him and refusing to cooperate with his thoughts.

Cold iron, he thought to himself, knowing his magic was probably going to be out of commission for awhile, The shackles must be made of cold iron. Now that he was paying attention, he could feel the strain on his body as his lifeforce was stripped away, piece by piece. If he remained in the bonds for much longer, he wouldn't be able to survive.

After all, he was not just given the talent of magic. He _was_ magic.

Merlin could not survive without it.

“Ahh, the precious Prince Emrys of Dracæne awakens.”

He startled at the suddenly cold voice, jolting and regretting the motion immediately when pain flared down his arms and shoulders once more. Merlin's eyes caught on a shadow that seemed to move, but not into his line of sight.

The voice was somewhat familiar, as thought he had heard it in the distant past, when he was still a child. It was masculine, rough, but with a lilt that indicated a noble lineage. There was an edge of hatred and disgust that confused Merlin—who could possibly hate him so much?

“Who are you?” Merlin questioned, his eyes skimming the darkness for any other sign of human life. The voice said nothing and Merlin tried again, swallowing his fear, “What do you want?”

“Want?” The man scoffed, then stepped closer. He was still a shadow, but Merlin finally had a figure to rest his eyes on. “I want a certain prince out of the way. I want a child who cannot possibly understand the workings of a throne and kingdom out of my way.”

He stepped forward once more and the light fell on his face. Merlin forced himself not to recoil, knowing better than to show a kidnapper that he recognized them. He knew the man—but only due to his wanderings in the castle some years before. He had stumbled across a large room with walls that were filled with paintings of past rulers and the royal family over the years. It was fascinating, seeing his family laid out here, even when they were long gone.

But he was not expecting to see one of them, living and declaring his hatred towards him.

At the time, Merlin had been struck by the painting. It was relatively new compared to some of the others, the colors on the canvas still bright. The boy was alone, only about fifteen years of age, and his platinum blonde hair and grey eyes were a shock in a room full of royalty with heads of dark brown and dirty blonde hair. He was so young, with a soft, kind face. Even at the time, though, he'd noticed the darkness in the boy's cold eyes that made Merlin shiver and turn away, but not before catching a glimpse of the name.

Agnor Ambrose, heir presumptive.

It hadn't been a familiar name at the time, but over the years following the discovery, he learned more about the boy. Prior to Merlin's birth, Agnor had been next in line. Once, his parents had worried that they were unable to have children. Merlin had been a late child—coming fourteen years into their marriage, after Agnor had already been instated as the heir presumptive and taught the rules of running a kingdom. Agnor was fifteen when Merlin was born and he'd disappeared not long after.

_“He was my brother's only son. I took him in after my brother and his wife passed away from sickness when he was seven. And he was gone before you were a week old. We searched, but he had no desire to be found.” Balinor explained when Merlin finally asked, looking saddened by the reminder of his nephew, “I had always hoped he would not be bitter about the circumstances, but it was not to be.”_

Over the years, the man had clearly aged dramatically from the fourteen-year-old boy he'd been in the painting, but Merlin would be able to recognize the stark blonde hair anywhere. But Agnor could not know that Merlin knew who he was.

“My father's the king.” Merlin said softly, already feeling the panic bubbling up in his stomach, “I've nothing to do with the court and running the kingdom. Those are not my responsibilities yet.”

“My point precisely. No one wants a boy who can hardly lift a sword as their king.” The man hissed back coming so close that Merlin had to struggle backwards in the bonds to avoid contact.

“We have a king!” Merlin shot back quickly, mostly confused. This had nothing to do with him, not yet. Not for many years. “My father will be the king for many more years—”

“How sure are you of that? King Balinor fights even now.” Agnor interrupted, “And he is distracted by his dear son’s sudden disappearance. Your father is at his weakest. He could fall at any moment.” Agnor backed away then, looking all too smug.

Merlin's eyes widened in realization as he took in his words, “You are not the rightful heir. No one would accept!”

“But I will be—once you and your damn father are out of my way. And if that peasant you call a mother interferes, I can always get rid of her as well.”

He struggled in the bonds, “You will not touch my mother!”

“The little prince has fire.” He mocked cruelly, looking amused by the situation, then continued, “You can do nothing to stop me. Your precious magic,” He nodded towards the shackles, “is bound to my will. And you are nothing but a boy.”

“Indeed,” Another voice chimed in, but this one was distinctly female. If it was possible, they sounded even more amused. Merlin shot an inquisitive look in Agnor's direction, but he looked much too pleased with the voice's presence for it to be a rescue attempt. Merlin sagged in the chains once more, gritting his teeth as he felt the hard metal dig into his thin wrists. “But one worth quite the ransom, wouldn't you say?”

Merlin frowned—this couldn't be about money. Agnor would have plenty of that himself—he came from old money after all, and no one who was so connected would risk execution for a pouch of gold.

“Cybêl” Agnor breathed and a lady stepped from the shadows.

Merlin had not doubt that she must be a Lady. She was quite beautiful, with hair that was not quite as blonde as her male counterparts', but still quite long and elegant. Her eyes were dark and seemed to stare deep down into his soul. Her dress was like those of the noblewomen from court, but Merlin was sure he'd never seen her there. Then she smiled, and a chill ran down his spine.

Cybêl must have noticed his discomfort, because her eerie grin widened and she clapped her hands together as she spoke, “Let's have some proper lighting, shall we?” Her lips moved, but he couldn't quite make out the words she spoke.

Her hands raised towards the ceiling and a bright light suddenly filled the room, dimming as it spread to cover the entire room in its dusty glow. Merlin felt his heart lodge itself firmly in his throat at the display of magic. Somehow, Agnor had a sorceress on his side. And, judging by the ease at which she cast her spell, she was not one to brush off lightly. She was at least moderately powerful—and probably much more adept at magic then he was. Half the time, his still refused to react to direct spells, and came out at relatively random moments. He had instinctive magic, but it would take years for it to settle enough for him to purposefully use it.

“Hmm,” She murmured, walking forward smoothly, and grabbing his chin to force him to look her in the eyes before wrenching his head to one side, her talon-like nails digging into his flesh, “I cannot begin to see any sort of family resemblance.”

“I took after my mother. He clearly takes after his father.”

She let go of his chin, humming lightly. “This is the child you have failed to kill for years? He is nothing but limbs, skin, and baby-fat.”

Merlin glared, but bit his tongue, focusing on using the meager light to seek out an exit.

“You misunderstand, Cybêl. I hardly want him dead. I want Balinor to suffer—and there is very little that a King despises more than cowards—a cowardly son who runs when he should be helping to protect that kingdom might just break him.”

Merlin twisted in the chains, reaching for the magic and nearly crying out when is pulled away from him again, “I would never run away. I'm no coward.”

Agnor grinned, not seeming concerned. In fact, he looked more entertained by Merlin's anger than angered or surprised, “You'll have no choice. You will be a coward, even if unwillingly.”

“My father will _never_ believe that I would run away.”

“I would not be so sure, boy. The ring and sigil declaring your rank were left in your chambers. Who takes a prince and leaves behind the proof that they have him?” Agnor said tauntingly.

Merlin's eyes widened—his mother and father would never believe that he left of his own free will, but it was completely possible that they could be persuaded, especially in the midst of a civil war and if Agnor had people in the castle, they could attempt to sway his parents even more. After all, more than one prince had disappeared under similar circumstances—and the few that had been found afterward had left of their own will.

“As far as they are concerned, you left everything behind. It was simply too much.”

Merlin shook his head, refusing to let Agnor's words get to him, “Garrell—”

“The dead knight? He was convenient. Perhaps they will put the blame on him since they will never find his body. It hardly matters, really.” Cybêl muttered, a soft smile on her face that failed to reveal her true colors. Merlin looked away, thoughts rushing through his head.

There was simply nothing he could do, not unless he somehow got free.

“They won't—”

The blow came from nowhere, and he reeled back as much as he possibly could while hanging from the ceiling, and blinked heavily, his head ringing as something wet dripped down his face.

Blood. 

Then he had to struggle with the thought that maybe being awake just was not worth it at the moment.

“I will not argue with a child!” The shout was dim and fuzzy, as if he was submerged in a pool of water and Agnor was trying to speak to him. But the pain in his head was amplified and refused to leave him be.

Merlin groaned, feeling the beginning of a bruise starting to form just under his right eye. The blood probably wasn't from a broken nose then—perhaps a ring? Had Agnor been wearing one? The boy tried to search his memory, but the haze that was present in the back of his head made it absurdly difficult to think.

Cybêl tisked, “Really Nor. The spell requires him to be awake. Beating him will only make this take longer.” She paused, as if thinking something over, “Do it after the spell is complete, if you really must. Now, get him down.”

Despite the fog that had taken over most of his mental capacities, Merlin was able to recognize the opportunity for what is was—a chance to get away. To get him down, they would have no choice but to remove the cold iron from his wrists. His magic was strong and probably did not enjoy being repressed—if he could get those chains off, then he could get past the sorceress. Agnor was only brute strength. He would hardly be a problem.

A loud snap interrupted his thoughts and suddenly his entire body was hyperaware.

“I am not stupid, little prince. I underestimate neither man, nor woman, nor child.” He reached up, undoing the chains with a quick movement that was just out of his range of sight, but made no move to restrain Merlin, even as he fell to the cold stone floor in an unceremonious heap when his legs refused to hold him.

But that hardly mattered, because his magic was still out of his reach. Even worse, instead of it being repelled from him, it felt like poison whenever he reached for the familiar tendrils.

“What?” he murmured, confused until his eyes landed on a thin piece of metal that encircled his ankle snugly. It looked much like a piece of jewelry that a noble woman would wear, except for the intricate runes that were carved around the entire surface.

He was still bound.

He pulled himself to his elbows, watching as Cybêl worked at a table, her back to him, and rustling through things that he was in no position to see.

Noticing he was still on the floor, he struggled to his feet, exhaustion clinging to him and trying to force him back to his knees. Before he could even think about making an attempt to escape, let alone actually execute it, Cybêl waved a hand lazily in his direction. Whatever spell she cast pulled his feet from under him, sending him crashing back down on the hard surface, his ears ringing once more when the back of his head smacked the surface. His ribs suddenly felt like they were on fire and he groaned, knowing that the spell must have done more than just take him to the floor.

“Nor, please. Restrain him properly. I do have more plans today. I haven't the time to hunt down a boy because of your foolishness.”

Agnor grumbled beneath his breath, moving to bind Merlin's hands together with a length of rope, then repeated the act with his feet.

“Roll him onto his stomach. The runes need to go onto his back to work properly.”

Merlin felt Agnor's hands only moments before he was roughly turned, his vision suddenly full of rocks. He turned his head, straining in the direction he knew Cybêl to be in, only to see her turn, a dagger in hand, gleaming as a strange pearly liquid dripped down its point.

“No,” Cybêl said, reading his intent, “Àsælan”

The spell washed over him, feeling protective in nature as it ran over his body fluttering through his hair. Then he gasped inwardly, feeling his limbs become as heavy as the stone he was laying on, immobilized.

“Cannot have you moving. It is vital that I get this right the first time.”

Whatever she carved into his back took ages. He felt every cut the dagger made—felt it when the tip withdrew from his skin, only to start somewhere else. Some curved, drawing up his spine, and certain strokes were abrupt, flicking across his skin.

It seemed like she had made dozens of cuts on his back by the time she finally pulled away. Despite the fuzz that encompassed his head, he watched, unable to move to make any sort of protest as she handed the dagger to Agnor. He wiped the blade on his pants, then made a swift cut on his forearm.

Cybêl motioned him forward and Merlin's stomach twisted as he felt the blood drip onto his wounds. Blood magic. A steady stream of words flowed from the witch's lips, but he could make nothing of the foreign words even as they slipped past him.

The words were lost—they meant nothing to Merlin. It was like no other spell Merlin had ever heard before. But they held power, great power that washed over his skin and ripped at his magic, using it to achieve whatever they had place over him. He gasped in pain, feeling everything within him rebel at the foreign touch.

Blood magic was powerful. It was nigh unbreakable.

“It is done.” Cybêl lifted herself from the stone floor. “ _Àspannan_.” 

Even as he felt both the ropes and invisible bonds fall from him, he remained unmoving, gasping in pain. It hurt. Everything hurt. It was as though his soul had been torn apart.

“Do you know what has been done to you, boy?”

He swallowed, suddenly feeling so small as he tried to lift himself onto his knees, then sunk to the ground when his limbs failed to cooperate. “No.” He gritted out, and even that hurt.

Agnor chuckled, crouching beside the young prince, “You can never enter Dracæne again. The spell my lovely Cybêl placed over you ensures that you become deathly sick the moment you step over the border. Even if you attempt to brave it, you'll get the shaking sickness after one candlemark. Try to stay within the kingdom for a day and you will never wake up. Do you understand, boy?”

Merlin coughed, glaring hatefully at the man—his own cousin—refusing to answer.

He nodded, clearly taking the hatred as the agreement that it wasn't. “Good. Cybêl, cast the last spell and we can leave.”

“This one is much simpler, but it will probably hurt the worse. Figuratively, of course. _Úre forsuwung béo mín hleódorcwido_.” Her final words were soft, but he would never mistake it for any sort of pity. He wrenched back, feeling her magic once more, but this time it seemed to bypass him completely.

He frowned, casting a curious look her way, but she was grinning triumphantly again, as though she had won a game he wasn't even aware they were playing. “What did you do?”

“You will find no pity from anyone who comes across you.” She said, wiping her hands on her dress, then throwing the bloody dagger in front of him. His eyes narrowed, but he made no move to take the weapon. “If anyone is to ask, you will only be able to tell them that you were a coward who was too afraid of war to stick around and fight.”

His blood seemed to cool in his veins, and he stared at the sorceress, unable to fully comprehend the situation he was in.

Somewhere to his left, Agnor laughed, but Merlin could hardly care. He had lost...everything in moments.

And he could never go home.

“I'll kill you,” he said quietly, his fingers wrapping around the hilt of the blade, “One day, I'll find you.”

But they were gone.

* * *

Merlin gasped, his eyes opening, sweat pouring down his face. For a few moments, breath fought to escape his chest and he forced himself to take deep breaths, tears stinging at the edge of his eyes. It had been years since he had thought of the life he once had—years since he had had nightmare's about a place he could never return to. Years since he thought of himself as Prince Merlin Emrys Ambrose of Dracæne.

But what he didn’t know was that he never heard the rest of their conversation—never heard words that changed everything.

_“He’s selfless,” Agnor had said in disgust, “Who’s to say he won’t try to sacrifice himself and travel back. Even if he lies, they may not believe the lie. They could guess.”_

_But Cybêl grinned, her white teeth glinting in the sparse light. “He won’t. I inlaid a compulsion into the spell. He’ll never be able to tell that it was a spell, but he’ll be terrified of being thought of as a coward. That alone will keep him away. Such a minor spell, it’s practically unnoticeable.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: the lyrics included in this chapter inspired the entire fic.
> 
> During these lost years, our boy Merlin is seen at the age of 6 and 12.


	4. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. Midterms are killer this year.

Honour your foe, and keep your aim true,  
Remember they fight with the same heart as you.  
Trust in their judgement of all that you throw,  
For they are a part of the valour you show.  
**Bow to the Crown—Heather Dale**

* * *

Merlin rose early the next morning, the previous night’s nightmares—but no, they were his memories, the ones he hid so deep he almost forgot that he was not the orphan child who stumbled in Ealdor after his parent’s deaths—still on his mind.

When he pulled himself out of bed and snuck downstairs, it was early enough that not even Gaius was awake yet. Instead of waking the physician, Merlin snatched a small piece of bread from the table and jotted down a note, explaining that he would be gone that morning and _yes-I-will-remember-to-wake-Arthur-thank-you-Gaius-for-the-overwhelming-amount-of-faith-you-clearly-have-in-me._ He needed some time to himself before he had to go wake his Royal Highn- _ass,_ because he couldn't be sure that he would be able to look at Arthur without saying something monumentally stupid. No need to give the prat any unnecessary ammunition, after all.

There was a new spell he wanted to attempt—but not in the castle. A sorcerer had recently nearly killed Arthur in his own chamber (he hadn't succeeded of course, because of course Merlin had been suspicious of him even when everyone else merely ignored him, as usual) and the castle security measured had become nearly ridiculous. If Gaius caught him trying any spells within the castle, there was no telling what he would do.

He had no intention of being subjugated to the Eyebrow of Doom that day, thank you.

As he passed the walls and reached the edge of the forest, he cast one look behind him at the kingdom, a place he learned to call home, and belatedly remembered to cast a masking spell. If anyone did catch sight of him, they would see a rather unimpressive and plain brunette who was much shorter and of a wider build than Merlin could ever claim to be.

It was a nice morning, and Merlin reached the clearing he'd taken to practicing within was peaceful. The sun was still a few hours shy of peaking over the horizon in the distance—Camelot wouldn't waken for hours yet—so he had plenty of time to attempt the spell.

The spell had been on a page that he hadn't seen before, stuck in between pages concerning a spell to boil water and one meant to strip a man's flesh from his bones. A spell of invisibility—one that would not just suggest averting one's eyes, but a full-scale invisibility spell that was only ineffective on a few creatures—like dragons and unicorns.

It would be immeasurably useful if Arthur decided to drag him on another one of his insufferable hunting trips and Merlin had to, inevitably, save him. Again.

Merlin sighed, dropping his rucksack to the dirt, before he retrieved the small strip of parchment from within. He mouthed the words to the spell a few times, allowing only breath over his lips the first few times.

When the words were stowed away in his mind, he dropped the paper and, in moments, it was consumed in flame and only ash fell to the forest floor. Right. Spells were challenging for him, even now, when his magic was so strong that it felt like it burned beneath his skin. It was a roaring flood, held back by a weak layer of flesh.

But power meant nothing. Elemental magic—instinctual magic—was simple for him, but purposeful spells were still something that caused him trouble. His magic rarely obeyed unless Arthur's life was in danger, which often had him wondering whether his magic actually liked Arthur more.

He shook those thoughts from his head. Focus. He needed to _focus_. After taking one last look around to make sure no one had stumbled across his hiding place in the last few minutes, he held up his hand, and whispered, “ _Áhellian fram bescéawodnes.”_

Nothing.

He huffed but wasn't entirely unsurprised. It was a rather tricky spell, one that was quite powerful and his magic was known to be the most useful in life-or-death situations. Just…not his own life-or-death situations.

Because his magic _liked_ Arthur.

“ _Áhellian fram bescéawodnes_.” He said again, more commanding this time, and rolled his eyes when his hand remained just as annoyingly visible. The words weren't particularly difficult—he'd cast spells with wording that was much more complex before, so he knew he could do this one. He just had to get it right.

Merlin nodded; he would get it this time, he was sure, “ _Áhellian fra_ —”

“And what have we here, eh?”

Merlin's mouth snapped closed, the spell stopping in his throat as he turned suddenly, and his eyes caught on the man just within sight.

He was clearly up to no good, a sword gripped tight in his left hand, and eyes narrowed. Merlin took a step back, reaching for another spell, when his foot caught on a branch and sent his sprawling on the ground. Laughter echoed through the clearing—cruel, bitter laughter that was so different from Arthur's and the knights when he made similar clumsy mistake in their presence—and he felt the flush of red creep up his neck, unto his cheeks.

_Stupid,_ he chided himself in his head, _really stupid_.

He could only imagine what Arthur would say if he was there.

_Thank the goddess for small mercies_. 

He made a move to get up and the laughter stopped abruptly, and the crisp edge of a sword found his throat. It prodded the skin of his neck in warning, and a thin line of blood dripped down his neck in response.

It would be simple enough to get rid of them quickly. A quick throw back into the trees would ensure that his secret, if they saw as much as he suspected they did, would never pass through their lips, but curiosity burned inside him.

They were still very close to Camelot, close enough that doing magic here was almost like asking for a death sentence, and bandits _never_ dared to venture this close to Camelot. Arthur was well-known for his skills and bandits rarely dared to purposefully ire Arthur enough to risk an attack. The fact that they were this close to Camelot was sure to anger him greatly.

He took the jabbing warning at his neck for what it was and averted his eyes for a few moments, but he already knew the situation and his position. Unless there were more bandits in the trees, which he never doubt, then there were only three. One, near the trees, had been the first he'd seen and was probably the leader. Two more stood behind him, including the one who held the sword to his throat.

The leader strode forward—his grip on the sword loosening as his eyes appraised the boy before him, “Well, boy? What business have you here?”

“That's none of _your_ business.” Merlin winced at his own words, as the sword pierced his skin. The second man behind him suddenly yanked his arms behind his back and pulled him into a kneeling position.

There was a scoff from above him and Merlin looked up, meeting the leader's eyes, “A brave peasant, are we? Or just stupid?”

Merlin bit his tongue, letting nothing pass his lips but he never dropped his eyes from the other man.

“Stupid, then.” The bandit decided, smiling a crooked smile full of maliciousness and rotting teeth that made Merlin stomach roll again. There was something about bandits that he despised. They cared little for anything other than their own gain going as far as to kill others who have even less for the little they do possess. “Tell me, boy. That Camelot?”

Merlin's eyes followed the man's finger. It pointed directly through a small clearing in the branches, showing part of the castle. It was Camelot, of course, but…

“You don't know what _kingdom_ this is?”

What kind of bandits were these?

The leader sneered, roughly pulling Merlin roughly to his feet by his shirt and pinning him to the closest tree before Merlin could speak another word . “I don't want attitude from you, boy. I want answers. Is. That. Camelot.”

“Yes.” It was not exactly a secret—they could get that information anywhere.

“And tell me, boy,” The bandit hissed in his face, and a dagger suddenly appeared at Merlin's throat. The servant stilled, his mind suddenly on his dreams the night before—and the ghost of a blade running over his spine made him shiver. “What is a sorcerer doing so close to a king that would execute him, hmm?”

Merlin's eyes widened. “I don't have—”

“I heard every word you said. Tell me, how much gold would I get for turning in a sorcerer planning to kill the king?”

“I was not—”

“Shut up.” The knife dug deeper in his neck. A second cut appeared next to the one given earlier. How was he going to explain that to Arthur?

“Caelen?” One of the other bandits—the shortest with dull eyes and black hair that was mangled and hacked off at the base of his neck—said quietly. “He could help, yes? He probably hates Camelot more than we do. He may aid us into the castle. Make our jobs easier.”

“I know my way around the castle.” Merlin said quietly and quickly, knowing this would probably be his only chance to figure out what they wanted and he chose his words carefully. “Why do you need in?”

“We hold little love for your king. Nothing personal, really. We just don't like any kings.” The leader said flippantly, though his eyes were clearly assessing Merlin now. “And as useful as you might be, I really don't like magic-users either. Traitorous lot, you all are. Can never keep your word.”

It was no surprise that the bandits shared Camelot’s opinion towards sorcerers—most in the five kingdoms did after all—but he had to wonder whether they had ever met Nimueh. They had her down to a tee at least.

“I can keep my word as well as any other.” Merlin defended lightly, still aware of the knife that was held to his skin. The sword had been removed at some point, but that thought gave him little comfort.

“Hmm,” The bandit hummed under his breath, his eyes flickering as he clearly tried to measure the sincerity apparent on the boy’s face. “I’m sure.”

He shrugged, noticing the loosening grip, “Helped bandits before.”

“Caelen?” The other man, the one unspoken until that moment, finally spoke up, though in a cautious voice that certainly confirmed just who the leader of the little band of criminals were.

“Shut up, you moron. And stop throwing my name around, _Joenes_.” The bandit spat back, his eyes finally leaving Merlin’s long enough for Merlin to brace himself against the tree, raising his hand just a fraction.

It was clear that he wasn’t going to get anything out of these bandits—they were like all the others with their desire to kill Arthur, cause a political upheaval, and get some gold alone the way. Though, perhaps a bit more reckless than most of the groups he’d come across. Usually, they tended to wait until Arthur was outside the castle and only defended by a few of his knights, but these particular bandits seemed hasty. And, oddly enough, willing to break into the castle itself.

They were hardly going to make a difference—he would also stand by Arthur’s side, an invisible defense against both magic, bandits, mercenaries, and foreign warriors who sought to defeat Arthur.

The leader’s eyes caught the small movement of Merlin hand, the slight splaying of his fingers—and his face showed the recognition and without any hesitation, the bandits jerked the boy roughly, smashing his head into a tree, twice, then letting go as the boy fell to the ground, suddenly dizzy and nauseous.

And…what was he doing again?

Merlin groaned, then bit back any further sounds as he felt the back of his head, his hand coming away clean. No open wound then—but _damn_ that hurt.

“Don’t try anything funny, _sorcerer_. I told you, I know your kind. Deceptive, traitorous cowards who think a few words will fix all their problems.” He scowled, but Merlin frowned as his eyes attempted to lock on the bandit, but the entire world suddenly seemed to be against him, twisting and morphing as it spun. The leader seemed to understand his problem, because his face twisted up into a sadistic smirk, “Hurt, did it? Good.”

Something akin to anger started to simmer deep inside Merlin—the funny sort of rage that took forever to spill over, but when it did…well, those on the receiving end never were happy with the situation that follower. He would know—it had happened enough times in the past.

And he wasn’t easy to anger.

Now was not a good time though, and he pressed the anger back. Being angry had made him do stupid things in the past. Stupid, unforgivable things.

"Point is,” The leader, Caelen, continued, his eyes boring into Merlin’s with an all to familiar cold glint, unforgiving and unyielding. It was the face of a man that could not be bargained with—it certainly wasn’t a face that was able to let him leave scotch-free. Luckily, he’d put on the charm to make his face seem like any other—plain and without any distinguishing features. “I don’t make deals with sorcerers. Neither do I allow them to live, no matter how weak they are. Couldn’t even cast that spell, could ya, boy? But a would-be sorcerer is as bad as any other.”

Merlin was careful not to show any emotion. The bandit clearly thought he was powerless, and that was probably the farthest he could be from the truth.

The bandit shifted, and years of training, both his own and the little he’d managed to glean from Arthur, immediately told him the bandit’s plan. A simple, but messy kill. A stab through the heart with the sharpened dagger, and the sorcerer’s life would be forfeit. No spell could heal a wound that would kill him immediately.

Fortunately, he was much more powerful than any of the bandits expected.

Magic, sharp and instinctual, rushed from his body before the dagger could get within a few inches of him, wrapping around Caelen’s body and throwing him forcefully back. The other two bandits flew just as high, before three nearly identical cracks rang through the clearing. Two of the bandits, farther away, both had been thrown forcefully into the trees at the edge of the clearing, their bodies now unmoving. Caelem had hit the ground hard after being thrown the highest, landing a few feet away from the bodies of his fellow bandits.

Merlin quickly stumbled away from the tree, his shoulder groaning in protest and there was a sharp pain from the cuts on his neck. He felt the wound, wincing when his hands came away sticky and bloody—quite a bit more bloody then he expected from two or three shallow wounds.

He hesitated, leaving the clearing, his eyes on the three figures for a few moments before the rising sun caught his attention and he swore, briefly, beneath his breath. He was going to be late waking Arthur, and the last thing he needed was another goblet thrown at his head for all his trouble. 

Merlin practically flew back to Camelot, only stopping once, to heal the cuts on his neck just enough that there were only fading marks that he could easily cover with his neckerchief and to shed the disguise, just within the bounds of the forest itself. Ducking into Camelot was easy enough. The guards knew him well and only obliged him with a brief nod before he scampered up to the kitchens, then to Arthur’s room.

He nearly ran over a maidservant on the way, but she was too amused by the all-too-familiar site of a late Merlin once again attempting not to kill himself in the rush towards Arthur’s chambers.

“Really, Merlin,” she said fondly, placing a cup that had fallen, but she’d been lucky enough to catch, back on the tray, “Why King Arthur hasn’t fired you…”

“It’s my charm.” Merlin smiled sheepishly, then seemed to remember himself, “Sorry, got to go. Arthur will be in a mood if I don’t get his breakfast to him on time. I really don’t want to muck out the stables today.”

She laughed as he ducked away, continuing his mad quest. The servant girl smiled, shook her head, then gathered her fallen laundry, as she continued to wonder about the oddity that was Merlin.

He managed to avoid crashing into any other servants on his way up to Arthur’s rooms, dodging a few others who appeared to be in a similar rush, though the most likely weren’t. Stopping in front of the large doors, Merlin shifted the tray into one hand, balancing the jug haphazardly at the same time, but reaching for the handle almost sent Arthur’s food to the floor. He frowned, then sent a quick glance over his shoulder, whispered quickly, and pushed the door open with his foot when it clicked open.

Making his way over to the table, he quickly set out the meal, but when he turned to wake Arthur, the bed was, unfortunately, very, very empty. Rumpled, and obviously slept in, but empty.

And Arthur was standing a few feet away, arms crossed, and looking very put-out.

“Uhh…” Athur was never out of bed early, even if Merlin was late. Ever. This was something he’d known for ages.

“Merlin.” Arthur said, a bit like a petulant child who’d been told his birthday had been cancelled. “Why are you late?”

Merlin _hmmed_ , taking a quick peek out the window. It wasn’t that late—not late enough for Arthur to have noticed already. “It’s still morning.”

“Thank you, _Mer_ lin, for that helpful information. _Still morning_.” Arthur scoffed, walking over and collapsing into the seat. With little hesitation, the king dug into his breakfast, making a quick motion with his hands that Merlin could only interpret as, _You know your job. Get on with it._

Merlin watched warily over his shoulder for any flying projectiles as he made quick work of the king’s bed, stripping the sheets and tossing them in a pile to be taken down to the wash later, but Arthur seemed oddly enraptured with his breakfast and nothing flew towards his head that morning, which was both a relief and slightly worrisome at the same time.

Merlin was about to move onto the mess that somehow managed to find its way onto Arthur’s floor every morning, despite having put away the things the previous day. For a king who spent very little time in his chambers, he certainly always made sure Merlin had plenty to do. Just as he knelt to pick up a shirt, there was a loud, but urgent knock on the door.

Arthur quickly sorted himself—Merlin managed to keep his snort of amusement to himself, but the glare that Arthur sent over his shoulder made him wince. Okay, not so much to himself then. “Come in.”

It was a knight, a younger one that Merlin only vaguely recognized from the training fields, followed by two others that he knew on sight, but neither of their names came to him, so he figured they must be relatively new as well. Camelot had been going through knights at an alarming rate, to the point where Arthur was knighting more and more talented commoners.

“Sire,” the youngest bowed low, his face flushed from exhaustion and his works came out in a rush. “I’m sorry for bothering you, but a messenger delivered a letter to the castle guards not ten minutes ago. He said it was urgent, but he had others to deliver and could not afford to wait for an audience. It sounded dire.”

Arthur stood, then stepped forward to take the letter that Merlin only just then noticed the knight was holding tightly. Even from the distance, the servant could see the rich paper, which practically screamed nobility. Someone important then, and likely in trouble.

“Thank you, Warren.” Arthur said quietly, keeping the letter folded, “The messenger said nothing of who sent it?”

“No, sire. He handed it to me and left after getting my oath that it would be given to you. He said nothing else.”

“Hmm,” Arthur worried the edges of the thick paper for a moment, but there was a lack of recognition in his eyes. It was not an expected correspondence, whatever it was. “I will look into it, Sir Warren. Training will be as scheduled.” He dismissed the three knights, who exchanged silent looks before they left, and Arthur closed the door, only opening the letter once the door was firmly shut before him.

Merlin watched the emotions pass over Arthur’s face, at first in amusement, then worry. There was confusion, which was to be expected, but it melted away into flitting anger, worry, then a strange resignation.

“What is it?”

“Important. And none of your business.” Arthur snapped, but there was no bite behind the words. He appeared to be thinking deeply about the contents of the letter and that alone made Merlin more than just a little curious

“Cenred, then?”

“Don’t be an idiot, _Mer_ lin. I said it’s important.” He sighed, slumping back into the previously deserted seat, rereading the letter once more.

Merlin made no move forward, despite the curiosity. “A threat?”

“Nothing like that. I—I need to think.”

“Don’t hurt yourself,” Merlin smiled, but it dropped when Arthur made no move to acknowledge the insult. That was disconcerting so whatever was in the letter was really throwing Arthur for a loop. “You have a council meeting this morning.”

“I _know_.” Arthur scowled, throwing the letter on the table and standing. “I’ll have to deal with it later. Stay here, Merlin. You have plenty of chores to make up and I don’t need you to spill anything on the council members today.”

“That was once. And he deserved it.”

“Owaen wanted me to _execute_ you!”

“Like I said, he deserved it. He’s an even bigger prat then you are.”

Arthur shook his head, mumbling something under his breath that Merlin couldn’t quite catch, before leaving. Normally, he would have protested letting Arthur go to the meeting alone, especially since an alarming amount of attempts on Arthur’s life were made at those—most of which Arthur didn’t actually know about—but he was much to curious about the letter that made even Arthur pause.

Since Arthur had become king, there was very little that seemed to faze him.

Merlin had the suspicion that it was a carefully constructed mask—and it was liable to crack at any moment. Whatever was in that letter might have done just that.

He waited a few minutes, carefully sorting the mess on the floor until he was sure that Arthur wasn’t going to come back, then sidled up to the table, deftly picking up the letter. His fingers caught on the back and he frowned, turning it over and surveying the seal for a moment before his eyes widened in realization. _It couldn’t be…_

Merlin flipped the letter over quickly, his eyes reading the letter hungrily, almost unable to comprehend the contents as he read the familiar handwriting. His fingers traced the words, stroking them as he took in the meaning behind them,

_His Royal Highness_

_King Arthur of Camelot_

_For a great many years, your people and mine have been at odds with another, due to differing beliefs and practices between our two Kingdoms. Once, many years ago, prior to the Great Purge of magic within your lands, Camelot and Dracæne were peaceful and flourished. Your father, the late King Uther, has long since declared us as an unfit kingdom. I have no doubt we have since disappeared off your maps._

_As I am sure you are aware, we refused to ban magic within our borders and this cost us a great many allies. However, there has been talk of your honor, your ability to act wisely and listen before acting against others._

_It is for this reason that we extend our plea to you._

_Dracæne was attacked by an army belonging to no kingdom, headed by both sorcerers and warriors alike, eleven years ago, and since that day we have been sighting a civil war that has taken too many lives and is no closer to being resolved. We would like to have an audience with you, King Arthur, if not to discuss peace and alliance between our two kingdoms, then to at least seek shelter. We have been overrun and the castle lost, though we fight still._

_None of the five kingdoms has extended their hands as of yet, and our situation is tremulous. The messenger who sent this will return in three days for an answer. All we require is a yes or no._

_King Balinor and Queen Hunith of Dracæne_

The breath seemed to rush out of his lungs as he dropped the letter back where Arthur left it, his mind already going much too fast, trying to process to much information at once.

His parents were _alive_. His years living in Ealdor meant receiving very little news about other kingdoms. They seldom heard news about Essetir itself, or even the neighboring Camelot, despite their proximity to the border. Few in Ealdor had even heard of Dracæne before, and those who did, had been old and only retained memories of their childhoods spent there. No one had recent news and the fact that he had no idea whether his parents were even among the living had eaten away at his mind for years.

But they were alive and well. Fighting a war, but _alive_.

And, for whatever reason, they were seeking help from Camelot, the land known for its hatred of magic more than any other.

And Merlin had no idea what Arthur was going to do. And he isn’t sure whether Arthur knew either.


	5. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter depicting Merlin's pre-Camelot years and our exiled prince meets a few new faces.

Then as now the times they were hard  
To succeed you would try all your might  
And sometimes love bloomed and sometimes dreams die  
By the glow of the kerosene light.  
**By the Glow of the Kerosene Light – The Once**

* * *

_The lost years..._

He woke near a riverbank, his hair and clothes damp from the morning dew. At first, he was lying motionless, prone, as his fingers dug into the moist dirt beneath him. Merlin blinked, rolling onto his back until a sharp pain wound up his back, starting from the base then ending near the back of his skull. It was a dull, reverberating pain, until he rolled over and the full effects of his injuries finally bore down on his weakened body.

Though he was left practically unscathed, save for his back which burned in agony and his wrists which still protested having to hold the full weight of his body for quite some time, he could barely move. His eyes locked on the sky as he struggled to breathe, the pressure that the new position exerted on his wounds was almost unbearable and brought forth tears that he had to struggle to contain. He rolled over again, this time forcing himself to his hands and knees. Once he got his breath back fully, he pushed backwards, so that his weight rested on his knees and the balls of his feet.

Even as he shifted, he could feel the pull on his back as the tenuous scabs broke open and small rivers of blood dripped down his mangled back. 

Not ten feet from where he knelt, lay the shirt he had been wearing when he was taken. It was nearly as mangled as his back felt but it looked relatively clean, considering. Mentally, he braced himself for a few moments, then crawled the short distance, the pain making him grit his teeth the whole way. It suddenly seemed to be a much greater distance than ten feet, or so.

Once, there he tore the shirt into a makeshift bandage, dipping a useless portion of the fabric into the clear stream and wiping away the excess blood that still caked his skin, before wrapping the somewhat ratty bandage around his torso a few times. He tried not to think of how easy it would be to get an infection out here, wallowing in the dirt, with no physician nearby to care for the wounds,

But no, Agnor made it clear that he didn’t want him dead. The traitor said that much in the cave, though Cybêl honestly appeared to care little either way. Merlin sighed, pulling the bandage as tightly as he could manage, securing it gently. Suddenly, he was glad that Bron had insisted he learn more than just magic and weaponry in his training sessions. The basic healing, sans magic, he’d learned was useful now.

Gritting his teeth against the pain, he set aside the bloodied scraps of cloth and tentatively felt along the bandage, making sure the wounds were all covered.

The magic-binding anklet was gone, and his magic was free within his own skin once more, but he’d never been good at healing himself, and the magic he did have felt monumentally depleted. It was there, but only just.

Anything requiring magic was just going to have to wait. 

Satisfied that the wound was taken care of to the best of his abilities, he struggled to his feet. He was well aware that he couldn’t stay the night there, in the open, in unfamiliar woods. His eyes stopped, eyebrows furrowing as they fully began to take in his surroundings and realized that he did know where he was. He’d been on a few border patrols recently, and a few had passed by this very spot.

 _“To be a king, or even a prince,” his father had said at the time, his voice firm, “you must know your people and your land. You must know your own weaknesses and strengths, your fears and your doubts, my son. And the only way to learn is by experiencing these things for yourself. No book can teach you this.”_ Until then, Merlin had been out of the castle on a few well-guarded and rare trips—and he loved every moment of freedom.

Now, he found himself glad for a very different reason. He knew the surroundings, the strange trees whose branches were intertwined in a braid, as if they were embracing one another, and the small river that rushed between the trunks of the intertwined trees. It was not an easy place to forget.

Essetir.

He was in the neighboring kingdom, but only just. A few yards beyond the river, just past the intertwining trees, was his kingdom. A kingdom that, if Cybêl was to be believed, he could never set foot in again without consequences.

“She’s a liar,” He said lowly, to himself, knowing he had little other than whatever comfort that the words gave him. “She _has_ to be.”

He couldn’t leave his parents now, when they were starting what would most likely be a long and drawn out war. He was not completely disillusioned—he wanted to help, but he knew that at his age he was more of a hindrance than a help. He would be sent away, as the council member had suggested, to be trained in secret until he could aid, if the war still continued. 

This was not for his safety. This was exile, by his enemy’s hands.

He was a prince. He was, if nothing else, the people’s hope for the future. To take that away would be devastating.

So she _must_ be lying.

After a few moments of searching, he found a section of the small river where he could cross with no difficulty, and trudged through the shallow water until he reached the other side, now only a pace away from the border between their kingdoms, between Dracæne and Essetir—one of the very kingdoms he grew up being taught to avoid.

Only Camelot was worse, with her king’s encompassing fear of the magical arts.

Merlin stepped forward slowly, a shiver immediately running down his spine, the wounds on his back suddenly feeling as though it was on fire. He gasped at the sudden pain, but stayed on his feet, taking another step forward.

The pain from his back was brutal, but not intolerable. For a few seconds, he wondered whether Cybêl really was wrong—or if she miscast the blood spell. Blood magic was notoriously difficult and a single mispronounced syllable could mean the difference between cursing one with bad luck and turning them to dust.

He took another step forward, then another, then a third. Yes, it hurt, but it didn’t seem to be nearly as bad as he thought it would be.

Then the burning agony spread to his legs, weakening them until they collapsed, no longer able to support his weight. He coughed twice, something strange churning in his stomach as he closed his eyes against the realism of the situation.

When he finally opened his eyes, feeling weaker by the second, they fell upon the ground, where blood was mingling with the dirt. He coughed again, more blood staining the ground. When his trembling hands felt his face, they came away bloody. His nose and eyes were dripping, not with tears, but blood, and every time he coughed, more flooded his throat. Reason finally came back to him, and he scrambled backwards to the river, back into Essetir.

And then, only then, did the hacking, bloody coughs stop.

He was no more than five feet from his kingdom and he’d never felt further from home in his life.

Somehow it was true—he couldn’t enter Dracæne. If Cybêl was telling the truth about the exile, then she probably had his words as well. He wouldn’t even be able to send a message to his parents, not even an apology unless he used her words—words calling him a coward.

No one would ever be able to respect him as their prince again.

Maybe it was best that I was banished, he thought bitterly, his eyes on the intertwined trees, better thought dead, than disgraced.

Tears stung at the edge of his eyes and, for once, he did nothing to wipe them away. There was no one here to see him now as he mourned the loss of his entire land. Everything he’d ever been and everything he’d ever done had been pulled from under his feet.

He was no worse, and no better, than any other boy.

Time was irrelevant. Merlin had no idea how long he sat by the riverbed, watching the life in the forest go on. He watched for as long as he dared, taking in what little of his homeland that he could in those precious hours.

He stood, then crossed the river once more, his back to the home he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to see again and left the memories behind him.

He left Prince Emrys Ambrose behind at the entangled trees and walked away Merlin—a name that few knew and none would ever use outside private company. It was a safe name, his name now.

* * *

Knowing nothing about Essetir past the fact that, while the king tolerated magic only when used for his benefit, it was by no means legal to practice, Merlin followed the river for a short time, until he could no longer recognize the other side as his kingdom, then took the next animal trail deep into the forest. Hopefully, he would find a small village. Merlin was by no means opposed to work, and now, even if he was, it wouldn’t matter. He would have to work just as hard as any if he wanted survive.

He wasn’t forgetting about home, he told himself as he tripped over a fallen tree. One day, he would find a way to go home. Perhaps he couldn’t break the blood spell keeping him out of Dracæne, but the silencing spell was sure to be weaker. Maybe, one day, he would find a way around the curse in order to explain his actions.

 _I won’t give up_ , he promised himself, pushing past the branches that stood in his way and trying to prevent himself from falling again. The first time had hurt badly enough and the last thing he needed was another injury. _One day, I will go home. And Agnor will pay for this. Him and Cybêl. I swear it._

The sun was halfway across the sky by the time he reached a village. It was small, even for a village, with only about ten homes and a couple other buildings all scattered along a dirt path. It was built in a clearing, some of the homes even seeming to meld into the trees. There were a few villagers milling about outside, most working in fields, even children who couldn't yet be three. All looked at him suspiciously, and none immediately approached him.

 _Not surprising, with how I look,_ he supposed.

He was quite a picture. They were seeing a kid, dirt covered and thin, with tattered pants that were ripped at the knees—when did that happen?—and a rather ragged bandage in place of a shirt.

Two stepped forward cautiously, one being a rather broad man who was most likely the ragtag leader of the small village and the other a woman who kept just behind him. They were both rather young and the man was probably only six or seven years older than Merlin himself. Neither looked like they were carrying weapons, and most likely weren’t. Very few could afford weapons, but the poorest of people were often the most resourceful. He stopped just in front of them, ducking his head meekly.

“S’cuse me, sir,” He said quietly, adopting the accent that his manservant-turned-friend, Will, had come to the castle with seven years before. “M’ just passing through. I need—can you help?” He struggled with the words.

They hardly looked like they wanted to help a strange boy—their eyes were hardened from years of took much work and little food. He couldn’t blame them for being cold towards an outsider. These were hard times in all kingdoms and outsiders generally meant trouble.

“I—” He started again, then gasped loudly, his wounds burning and his words catching in his throat.

The woman took a step forward, her brow furrowing in confusion, but the man extended an arm, stopping her silently. Clearly, he was a man of few words, but his eyes held both caution and sympathy.

But he was hardly looking at the pair as the truth finally caught up to him. Every time he attempted to tell the truth of what happened to him, the words refused to go further than his throat. He was silenced. It stung, the confirmation of Cybêl’s harsh words.

Merlin looked up finally to see that neither the man nor woman had moved, but he had attracted the attention of others, whose hands had stilled from their work during their attempts to listen in.

Merlin opened his mouth again, to say some lie or another—it wasn’t like he could tell the truth, no matter how much he wanted to—when exhaustion swept over him, and he collapsed, darkness overcoming him in seconds. It was by no means sudden; he’d felt terrible for hours, but his body had finally given into the pressure that both his wounds and mental exhaustion put upon him.

Just as he eyes closed, he saw the man come forward, catching him then lowering him to the ground and…

 _Nothing_.

Part of him was relieved. 

* * *

He wasn’t sure how long it had been when he finally came to. The light of the moon, already high in the sky, shone through one of the window in the small home, where he was laying, face down on a scratchy blanket.

His wounds were re-bandaged, he noted as he sat up, feeling the material that wrapped most of his torso.

“That’s a very strange wound for a kid.”

Merlin jumped, twisting around in a way that sent a flare of pain from his shoulder blades to his lower back, but his eyes only met the same woman who’d stood behind the large man earlier. He tensed, knowing that she had likely been the one to wrap his wounds—and she’d most likely gotten a very good look at them.

She pursed her lips, but looked unconcerned by his lack of answer. “Come here, I need to make sure you didn’t hurt yourself.”

Cautiously, he shook his head as he stood, his back to the wall. There was no need to involve other with his own problems.

Her expression never changed, even as he denied her help.

“I wasn’t lying.” She said finally, “That is quite a wound. I’m no physician, but I do know some of the basics. That wound will be deadly if it gets infected. I will not have a child die in my home.”

He didn’t move.

For the first time since he’d woken, frustration crossed her face, “If I need to, I can get my brother in here—”

“Brother?” The words passed his lips of their own accord, and he immediately clamped them closed, unwilling to say another word.

She looked just as startled, but regained herself quickly, “Yes, the boy I was with earlier. He’s my younger brother.”

Merlin nodded, his eyes on the floor again.

The girl sighed, crossing her arms and slumping against the wall. “I really can’t force you to accept my help, but I would appreciate it if you would let me.”

He shook his head again.

“Fine,” she said slowly, “Will you at least tell me how old you are?”

He bit his lip, but it really was a harmless question. “Near thirteen.”

“Awfully young to be in the woods alone.” She commented slowly.

The door behind her opened as the man from earlier, her brother entered. The man said nothing, just nodded his head once in recognition. After a few moments, he set aside a large bag and came to stand near to his sister.

Under the new level of scrutiny, Merlin found it harder to lie to the people who were actually helping him. “I—My parents were killed.” He said quietly, trying to compose his own lies so that the spell wouldn’t proclaim him a coward. He wasn’t sure how the curse worked, but he wanted to start new. “We were attacked, bandits. My parents distracted them, told me to run.”

“The brand?”

Merlin blinked, focusing on the man more clearly now. His voice was deep and his words were few, but they were the first he’d heard from the man.

He chose his words carefully, “My parents weren’t well-liked. We were running, but some of their enemies caught up to us. They made sure—” I could never go home, but those words went unspoken as the silencing spell choked him off. Too close to the truth. “They did this to me. I don’t know its purpose. Not completely.”

Neither of the siblings said a word at first, but the sister finally broke the silence, “You won’t tell us your name, will you?”

It was clearly a rhetorical question, but Merlin shook his head anyway, “No.”

“Fair enough.” She said, the smile never leaving her face, “You should stay a couple days at least. The… wound really shouldn’t be exposed to the elements until it’s completely healed.”

“I…can’t.”

“You can.” She said softly, “You’re a child. Twelve, you said. Do you even have anywhere to go?”

“Dindrane…” The man said, but she waved away his concern.

“Hush. This may be your house, but I’m older. He’s a child.”

“I have family.” He lied quickly, not wanting to make them fight with one another. Not over him. Not right now. “That’s where we were going. My mother has a brother in…” he searched his memory. His mother did have a brother, but where did he live? “…in Camelot. That’s where I was going.”

“That’s not close.” The man said slowly, then corrected himself “That’s a far distance to travel by foot.”

“I’ll find work on the way. I’ll get by.”

“Please,” Dindrane spoke up, as she pushed away from the wall and came close, her rough hands taking his gently, as she pulled him towards the bed, “Allow us to help. That won’t be an easy journey. We’re leaving as well, in a few days’ time to find better fortune elsewhere. Stay until then.”

He allowed himself to be sat back down and, seeing the concern in her eyes, finally relented. “A few days. I—I can do that.”

“Thank you,” She whispered, a genuine smile stretching across her face. When he looked up, towards her brother, he caught the small smile on his as well, before the large man crossed the hovel again, going about his own business.

Dindrane motioned towards the bandages, “Might I check?”

Merlin hesitated at first, but knew there was really no point towards secrecy now. She, and her brother most likely, had already seen what was beneath the bandages, so he nodded his assent, then winced a few moments later when he felt the pull of the bandages.

“Looks like your squirming didn’t do much,” She finally relented, tightening the bandages once more. It was a clumsy bandage, he realized, done by someone who didn’t have any training. But it was much better than what he could do by himself when he was in this sort of condition. “Rest.”

“I don’t…” He felt the bed move beneath him as she stood, and realization dawned on him, “I’m taking your bed. I can’t do that.”

"You’re injured.”

“I can’t—”

“You will.”

What was _with_ people interrupting him? These last few days, he could hardly say anything without someone voicing their disagreement before he could finish.

“I’ll hear nothing more.” She stated firmly, “I’ll take my brother’s bed. He doesn’t use it half the time anyway. The boy hardly sleeps.” 

Merlin bit his tongue, not wanting the ire the woman who was willing to take care of him. It would be stupid to deny her help, and it would be even idiotic to argue with her.

It didn’t mean he had to like the situation.

“Why?” He questioned quietly, knowing that she would understand his question without clarification. .

She smiled softly at him, roughly running her hands through his hair in a strange gesture of affection. “I have a little brother. You remind me of him.”

Merlin blinked, looking over her shoulder at the rather large man, who was bent over, trying to bring forth a fire to chase off the cold that was already settling in for the night. “ _Him_?” He said incredulously, pointing to make it clear who he was asking about. He couldn’t be farther from the other man. He was a broad man, even in his youth, almost ridiculously tall with sandy blonde hair and dark blue eyes.

He felt rather like it would be difficult to find someone who was less like the other man than Merlin himself was.

As if she was reading his thoughts, Dindrane laughed, “Maybe not physically,” She amended, with another snicker, “but there’s a gentleness, a…kindness within both of you that I see in few these days. My brother is still young, barely eighteen summers old, but he has a lot of weight on his shoulders. Your eyes say that this is a weight you have as well.”

Merlin was still trying to wrap his head around the fact that her brother was only eighteen and still the size he was, when her words finally caught up to him. He shook his head to clear the wayward thoughts before he answered, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m sure.” She murmured, and he didn’t need to look up to know that she was looking at him with pity now. “You should sleep. You’ll need all the rest you can manage before you head for Camelot.”

“Thank you.”

It was for more than just the talk, and the shelter. Her kindness was far-reaching and all-encompassing. Her and her brother had so little, but were willing to take him in, a boy who could be lying about everything. She stood, putting her hand gently on his shoulder in understanding. “You’re welcome. Now rest.”

He stayed with Dindrane and her brother—who she calls Cee in a way that makes Merlin wonder if that was his real name, or if it was an obnoxious nickname from an older sibling—for three days. In that time, he’s come to know the two siblings better than he expected. Dindrane is the polar opposite of her brother, both physically and in regards to personality. Her hair is just as fair as her brother’s but she is as lean as her brother is wide, and she seems to speak for both of them.

Her brother—Cee—never seems to mind, but Merlin finds time to speak to him as well. In the end, he learns about the past, their family, and mourns for their lost parents, who’d been killed in a fire a few years before.

“You’re a good kid.” Dindrane says quietly, when she sees his concern.

Despite the fact that he was so much younger than the brother and sister, he quickly found himself calling them his friends in his head. He isn’t sure if they consider him their friend, but he has had so few friends in the past, he clings to every acquaintance he can manage.

Will, the boy who came to be his manservant after his parent’s death and became his friend over the years, was one of the few he’d had regular time with, when he was still a prince. They’d become inseparable, but now that friendship felt like a life away.

So perhaps he was rushing into calling the brother and sister his friends, but a feeling drew him to the brother, and his sister by association. Even if their friendship would last a few days, it was better than nothing at all.

Over the three days he had with his new friends, the cuts on his back had healed at an incredible rate. After two days, the scabs had fallen off, leaving behind the scars—scars which were unnaturally as black as the night and might have been mistaken for tattoos if not for the fact that Dindrane could trace the lines that were etched into his skin, leaving a deep crevice wherever there was a line.

“It feels powerful,” She whispered to him on the second night, when she finally left the bandages off, and handed him a shirt that she’d managed to get from one of the villager’s, whose son had outgrown the clothes the previous year. “Deeply powerful. I’ve never felt anything like it. I don’t suppose you’ll tell me anything else.”

He’d smiled sheepishly, shrugging, but she only laughed, “Keep your secrets. One day, kid, someone will learn them all and it probably won’t be me.”

Those three days flew by, as he helped the siblings get ready for their own departure from the village. “It was never meant to be a permanent home.” Dindrane explained to him when he asked why they were leaving when they seemed to fit in with everyone in a way that Merlin never truly expected to. He was still raised as a noble, and he was always doing things that even made Cee look taken aback, “This house belongs to another, but she was kind enough to allow us to stay while she cared for her ailing mother for the last year. Her mother has passed on and she’s returning. It’s time Cee and I made our own way.”

In the end, he left the same day as they did. Since they were all on foot, he traveled east with them for a time, until they came across a town that Merlin figured he could find work in easily enough and he departed with a heartfelt goodbye to the two.

“I’ll find a way to thank you one day,” He promised. They had no way of knowing how much they’d done for him—they helped heal him and were patient when he did something that no peasant would do—and they had no idea how powerful his words really were. He was still a prince, even if he was disgraced. He would have become a knight, had he been allowed to stay in his kingdom, and his honour meant a lot to him. “I promise.”

He would never forget their kindness and, one day, he would repay them.

Dindrane smiled gently, exchanging a short look with her brother, then pulled something from over her neck, pushing it into his hand. Merlin frowned at the small chain, and the talisman that hung at the end. “It was our mother’s.” He opened his mouth to argue, but the small woman held up her hand, “No, listen. Keep it—find me when your fortune has changed. Bring it back and that will be enough of a thank you. There’s something that makes me trust you—and my instincts have not betrayed me yet.”

He shook his head, pushing her hand away, wrapping her fingers around the chain rather than his own. “Don’t ask me that. That’s the only possession you have of your mother’s. I can’t take it. Don’t ask me to.”

Dindrane looked at him carefully, then pulled him forward into a hug. After a moment, she released him, and Cee stepped forward and, surprisingly, pulled him into a much tighter hug. He closed his eyes, forcing back the tears that threatened to fall. “My sister’s right.” The man said, ruffling his hair, “You are a good kid.”

“Try not to get in anymore trouble.” Dindrane added, “I hope to see you again one day, kid.”

They left not long after. Merlin found shelter behind a stable for the night and when he reached into the single rucksack Cee had given to him to hold his meager belongings—which included the little money he’d had in his pocket, a few sets of secondhand clothes, and whatever food Dindrane and Cee could afford to spare—to pull out a piece of bread, the talisman fell out into his lap.

He closed his eyes, holding the necklace close to him for a few minutes, before he sighed and looped it around his neck.

“One day,” he whispered to himself as he tucked it beneath his shirt, “One day, I will.”

The next morning he walked into town to find some work. He had no intentions of actually going to Camelot, but if he was going to survive the winter he was going to need either money or a safe, warm place to spend the cold days and bitter nights that would soon be upon them. Someone would surely hire him.

He hoped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merlin is 12 in this chapter.
> 
> Also, I try to limit my OC's as much as possible. Fun fact: both characters are in Arthurian legend so...guess who why might be? Let's be real. He needed some kindness.


	6. Chapter Five

I don't know if you can see  
The changes that have come over me  
In these last few days I've been afraid  
That I might drift away  
I've been telling old stories, singing songs  
That make me think about where I've come from  
That's the reason why I seem  
So far away today  
**Caledonia – Celtic Woman**

* * *

He finished cleaning Arthur’s chambers in record time and if he used some magic despite the increased security, who would truly know? Arthur was indisposed at a council meeting He would hardly want Merlin to burst in halfway through the meeting (he’d learned that the first time, and had received a slap to the back of the head for his efforts), so he headed back to Gaius’ chambers.

Researching the spell that silenced his true words had been put to the side for most his life. Before Camelot, he found few who knew even the simplest spells, and those would did kept the knowledge tight to their chests in fear. Camelot itself gave him plenty of knowledge in the magical arts, but since becoming Arthur’s manservant, he hadn’t had the time to do any secret research.

There were forbidden stacks of magical tomes through a secret door in the library, guarded heavily by Geoffrey’s watching eyes, but Merlin had yet to ever find an excuse to go back there—only one who had Uther’s word could enter those stacks and no magical crisis was enough support to warrant the unsealing of the books.

Since Uther’s death, Arthur seemed even more wary of the stacks and had forbidden entering the stacks just as vehemently as his father once had. Unfortunately, Merlin never had a real reason to sneak in, and Gaius had warned him that nothing was worth getting caught there.

Merlin wondered whether Gaius would have the same opinion if the older man knew who he really was—his nephew, an exiled prince whose words were just as sealed as those books.

But Gaius knew none of that. No one did. He’d taken a chance, announcing himself as Merlin in front of the older man when they first met, but Gaius was just as unaware of his second name as anyone else, and hadn’t made the connection.

That wasn’t important right now. He had work to do—a spell to get rid of, somehow.

He couldn’t chance the forbidden stacks. Geoffrey was guaranteed to be flitting about the library at this time of day. Rarely was he not somewhere in the library, even during the night hours. It made sneaking in even more difficult and he never had enough motivation to actually break in and chance getting caught.

If there was any chance of his parents coming to Camelot, he would need to be able to tell them the truth, even if the brand on his back stole his chances of returning home with them.

 _Not home_ , a traitorous thought whispered. _Not anymore._

He’d spent so long away from Dracæne, he could barely remember the castle. The details about the kingdom itself had long since disappeared from his recollections. Even his parent’s faces were beginning to fade from his memory. 

A few minutes later, he walked through the door into Gaius’ chamber, feeling relieved when it was empty. “Must be out doing his rounds.” He muttered quietly to himself, before checking to make sure nothing was remiss—a habit now, with all the recent magical attacks on Camelot—before he hid himself in his own rooms, closing the door firmly behind him.

Arthur would be with the council member for several more hours, he knew. It would be plenty of time to flip through the spells book Gaius gave him all those years ago, just once more. He’d long since determined that there was nothing within the book that would get rid of the silencing spell or the blood curse, but a faint hope that maybe he’d just missed something the first fifty times he flipped through remained, unwavering.

After all those times reading through the spells, flipping the pages and casting uselessly, he’d only found one that was close to what he needed.

“ _Áberan gemilscad hléoþcwideas_.” He whispered, tracing the familiar words. They never worked, and he hadn’t ever expected them to, but they were the closest he’d ever come to having his words be his own again. It was a spell to give a person whose voice was completely taken away, that voice back.

It wasn’t meant for someone who was cursed not to speak of certain events.

Whatever spell Cybêl used to curse him, it was probably dark magic. The only way he would find answers, if that was the case, would be to search in a book concerning dark magic, which he didn’t have. The forbidden stacks, however…

He shut the magic book, hiding it under the floorboard quickly, determination already setting in. He would break in, then. It was his only real option.

Tonight.

Geoffrey couldn’t possibly stay there all night—and sacrificing a night’s sleep would hardly matter if it meant he got his answers.

He’d already taken too much time away from finding his own answers, which wasn’t completely his fault—Arthur was once a demanding prince and an even more demanding king.

“How Will ever put up with me…” His memories flashed back to the boy who’d been assigned as his manservant when he was six, and Will was eight. Merlin knew he was an obnoxious brat back then (not as bad as Arthur of course), but Will became his friend anyway.

As much as a servant could become friends with a future king. It was once a ridiculous notion, but somehow he was in the same situation again.

Only this time, _he_ was the servant.

It might have been amusing, if not for the fact that he didn’t have a choice. Arthur was a good friend, but sometimes Merlin wonders what would have become of him and Arthur if Merlin would have been able to remain in Dracæne as the prince he was once raised to be. 

Merlin sighed, putting his head in his hands, as he sat back down on the floor, his back against the bed. He needed to put the past behind him. It would do no good for him to be distracted by what could have been. The only thing that was really important was that this was his life now, this was the role he was destined to play, and this was the future he could have.

The past was the past and there was no sense in dwelling on it.

He stayed there for a while, breathing slowly as he tried to piece himself back together again. The thoughts of his old life were banished, and he filled in the gap with the past he’d made for himself. He remained on the floor for as long as he dared, until he knew he was pushing Arthur’s patience. He was expected on the field when Arthur was training—and the council meeting was certainly over. Training was highly regarded by Arthur, but Merlin hated sitting on the sidelines, watching other practice something his fingers itched to take back up.

The few times when he was handed a sword and shield, he had to push the stubborn part of him that wanted to shift automatically into a stance and block every one of Arthur’s boorish attacks, to the side and pretend to be the coltish, uncoordinated peasant Arthur and his knights thought him to be.

Well, the clumsiness was not quite an act.

That was all very him.

None of it was an act, not anymore. Once upon a time, he thought it was, but the wall he’d put around himself had long since crumbled into dust. There were things about himself that had to stay hidden though.

The magic.

His title.

And anything that would make anyone suspicious that he was not what he said he was.

A few minutes later, the training field was in sight and, unfortunately, so were all the knights, already about halfway through their daily training exercises. He was well and truly late.

“Merlin, I swear we had this conversation this morning.” Arthur’s mood appeared to be even _worse_ than this morning. “Why are you late this time?”

“I had to—”, Arthur’s souring mood did not bode well for him—he was going to have bruises for days. _Again_.

“You know what? I don’t care.” Arthur interrupted, pulling off one of his gloves to wipe the sweat off his forehead. Merlin didn’t dare let his eyes linger for more than a few moments, concentrating firmly on something over Arthur’s shoulder instead. “I had to put up with George again, Merlin. You know how I feel about George.”

Merlin bit back a smirk. _Nope_ , he was not going to give Arthur any further reason to beat him up. “I’m, uhh, sorry?” Then, belatedly added a quick, “Sire.”

Arthur snorted, replacing the glove and pulling his sword from the sheath at his side. “You will be. Get a shield. I need to work on a new striking tactic. It is… _particularly_ damaging, I was told. Should be great fun for both of us.”

“Right,” Merlin mutter, watching Arthur rejoin the knights. “Fun. The great clotpole. Wouldn’t know fun if it bashed him in the arse.”

“Come _on_ , Merlin.” Arthur called from where he and the knights were gathered in a circle. Gwaine winked, motioning suggestively towards Arthur. Merlin only rolled his eyes, choosing to fetch the equipment instead of react to Gwaine’s behavior. It never made Gwaine stop (where Gwaine got some of his ideas, Merlin never knew), but it was worth a try.

It didn’t help that Gwaine was completely right about Merlin’s feelings, but they weren’t the sort of feelings that ever came to fruition. It was best to just ignore them. He wasn’t naïve enough to think that they would go away, but it wasn’t as though he could acknowledge them.

Not in this lifetime.

Thirty minutes and a few rounds of battering later, Merlin staggered up to his rooms as told by Arthur. What was with that man and swords and _bloody_ maces? He enjoyed weapons to a degree that was almost worrying.

“You’re useless when you’re this distracted, idiot.” Arthur told him, shooing him away after Merlin tripped backwards after only a few blows for at least the fifteenth time that morning. He nearly landed on the sword that had been given him, but it was snatched away by Arthur when he started to see Merlin go down. “I need to get some real training done today. Go try to be useful somewhere.”

Red tinged his neck as he ducked his head and scurried away, half-mortified. Merlin only half heard Arthur yell something about a roundtable meeting later that night, as he disappeared inside the citadel. He’d hadn’t trained—actually trained—with a sword since he left his kingdom and sometimes he wondered whether the small amounts of skills he’d learned then had already rusted away. He’d never been particular good at swordfighting, but he was skillful enough that he should be able to put a few of the lesser skilled knights on the ground, but could he, really? Had the skills he’d once had given way completely to the skills that were beneficial to an actual servant?

He’d never landed on his arse so many times before, not since his first training session. In that case, the entire lesson was pretty much composed of his exuberant teacher putting him down in the dirt as many times as possible to prevent him from thinking his position meant he would gain favor and automatic praise. It was a lesson Merlin carefully remembered, even after all these years.

Secretly, he was terrified of becoming weak. Of course, Arthur and the knights all doubt his physical strength, but it was very different when he started doubting himself.

He knew his own body and the way it’s built—he knows that he is lean beneath his clothes, but he’s more than that. No bulky muscle ever built up on his frame, but he was strong. Or he had been, when he was young.

Halfway to his rooms, he switched directions and headed towards one of the towers on the far end of the castle. At the moment, he had no desire to be found. Arthur would never be able to understand—and Merlin didn’t expect him to understand—but he was still a prince somewhere deep down, no matter how hard he tried to repress that side of him.

And wounded pride, no matter how well he hid it, affected him just as much as it did any other knight. Sometimes he hated it, the pretending he was less than what he truly was, especially before he met Arthur. He’d had no purpose. He was a child wandering through kingdoms that would have him burned for abilities he never asked, exiled and unable to talk to his parents and the few friends he’d made growing up. Arthur was at least a reason, a purpose that he clung to when the Great Dragon finally told him that he was brought to Camelot for much greater things.

Destiny brought him here.

That didn’t mean that some small part of him resented being taken away from everything he’d ever known by a sorceress and a man who shared blood with him. He wouldn’t trade knowing Arthur, even serving him, for the world, but the circumstances left much to be desired.

When he finally reached the tower, he whispered a word to loosen the lock, which had been added years before when a nobleman fell through the rotting stairs, opening the door. With a quick glance either way to ensure that the halls were empty of any guards or patrolling knights, he disappeared behind the door, leaving it locked.

The lock was more of a formality these days anyway. The event had happened years before Merlin even arrived in Camelot. No servants came to this wing by some unspoken rule, and the stairs to the higher floor of the tower were left in an even worse state than they must have been in those days. He carefully sidestepped the large hole, obviously made by the poor nobleman all those years ago, a few steps up and traced the familiar path up. There were several steps that were weakened, forcing him to skip them altogether, and even more places where the wood was rotted altogether.

It was no wonder that no attempts were made to repair the steps. Few could traverse the stairs without falling to their death—the only reason Merlin even attempted it the first time was because he knew his magic wouldn’t let him fall. 

Since then, it had become his private refuge; even if Arthur ever did figure out where Merlin was hiding, he would never dare to attempt the steps himself.

The room at the top was barren. The floor was solid, unlike the steps leading to the room and the walls rose high around him. There was a large window facing the north, the boards long blown out to allow the summer’s heat a release. The emptiness of the room hardly bothered him and he only smiled as he took a glance out the window, catching a glimpse of Arthur and the knights in the courtyard, before he stepped away and sat cross-legged in the middle of the floor.

Arthur was going to kill him when he discovered that Merlin was skiving off his chores, but his thoughts seemed unavoidable. Everything he’d been avoiding was finally coming back to bite him and if he didn’t get this lying spell off him, then there was every chance that he could be revealed—everything about him in the worst way possible.

_Merlin._

He startled, his eyes flickering closed as he tried to pinpoint the familiar voice. Ahh—

“Kilgharrah.” He shook his head, rubbing his forehead as he began to mourn the loss of his relatively clear head. He never got away from a meeting with Kilgharrah without a splitting headache. A headache which could only seemingly be cured by one of Gaius’ particularly nasty remedies, “I can’t meet you right now.”

_Merlin._

“Kilgharrah.” He snapped back, then winced. Arthur wasn’t the only one who was short-tempered that day, it seemed.

_Beware the soft-spoken._

Merlin groaned, laying on his back and throwing an arm over his eyes. “This isn’t another one of those cryptic messages that make absolutely no sense until it’s too late, is it? Because I’ve had plenty of those from you.”

_I do as I must until you release me from my oath._

“Brilliant.” He murmured, “Stubborn dragon. I can’t release you from the oath. You’re a dragon. My father’s a dragonlord. I can’t afford—”

_I am not patient._

“Tell me about it.” He huffed, tracing a crack in the wooden floor with a finger, trying his hardest not to think about the dragon. “I’m cursed, Kilgharrah. It’s not like I can help it.”

 _Hmm._ _And as I keep saying—you are Emrys._

“I don’t know what that even means! I’m Emrys, I know. The Prince, the _prophecy_. Whichever one you mean this time. That doesn’t mean I can break it.”

The Great Dragon was one of the first Merlin had tried to ask for help, and the boy had learned quickly enough that, while weakened enough that he could mention that he was cursed, in the presence of a magical creature as powerful as Kilgharrah, it didn’t mean that he could say anything further. It was one of the few problems that the dragon could help very little with.

It meant that when Merlin freed Kilgharrah, he made the dragon swear not to speak a word about him to his parents, should the dragon ever decide to return to Merlin’s native land. Needless to say, Kilgharrah was not happy with the development, but freedom was too strong of a call for his to refuse Merlin’s offer.

_Come to me._

“You can’t do anything. We already know this Kilgharrah.” He sighed, wondering if the dragon was going senile in his old age. “Besides, I already said I can’t tonight.”

_Tomorrow._

“Why?”

_Tomorrow, young warlock._

And he was alone in his head again, left behind with only his thoughts and a raging headache. “Thanks, you were just about as helpful as always.” He was well aware that Kilgharrah wasn’t listening to him anymore, but it helped. It really did.

He wasn’t sure how long he laid in the middle of the tower, alone save for his thoughts. He had to figure something out.

Then again, why was he getting so worried? Arthur, while not as dead-set against magic as his father, still hated it. The prince, now king, was raised that way—knowing only that all those who practice magic are evil and vying for his death. Inviting a king and queen who tolerated magic, and even encouraged it occasionally, wouldn’t fit with the world Arthur had been raised to see.

The letter only proved that they were asking for help. They certainly weren’t in any position to retaliate for Camelot’s lack of assistance, so why did Arthur appear to actually be having conflicting thoughts when he read the letter? The Arthur he’d met for the first time all those years ago was a boy, desperate for his father’s approval. That boy would have thrown the letter in the fire without looking at it twice.

Yet, Arthur was different now, a king in his own right. He no longer lived under his father’s shadow, but shone bright all on his own. He was a king that Merlin was proud to serve under.

Apparently, he was also a king who was at least considering the notion of improving relations with a kingdom that allowed magic freely, without any form of persecution.

Dark was starting to creep through the window, chasing away the evening light when Merlin finally stood, noting that Arthur really was going to kill him for deserting most of his duties for the day, and stretched the kinks out of his back. Arthur had mentioned something about a roundtable meeting and Merlin was generally expected at those. He wouldn’t be late to this meeting at least—Arthur kept the meeting relatively under wraps, due to the rather selective membership, which consisted of only Arthur’s most trusted knights, Gaius, Merlin and Arthur himself.

When he ducked into Arthur’s chambers, almost everyone was already seated into their respective positions. Arthur’s chambers had become the unofficial meeting place for round table meetings, because they were one of the few places in the castle where no servants dared to step without permission. For years now, that was only Merlin, with the occasional exception of George.

Hopefully Arthur was in a better mood than earlier…His head could only take so much abuse in a single day.

“Merlin, what did I say earlier, _about George_?” Arthur, it seemed, was in a decidedly worse mood than this morning, Merlin noticed. His tone certainly suggested so.

“I wasn’t feeling well after this morning.” The lie slipped off his tongue smoothly, and he winced inwardly. Lately, lies had come so much easier and he hated what that meant for him. Sure, there were plenty of occasions where his skills at lying were atrocious, but those occasions were getting fewer and farther between.

“ _Really_.” Arthur drawled, leaning back in his head with an unimpressed expression. Okay, so maybe his lying wasn’t that good yet. The king narrowed his eyes, but didn’t move a muscle, “Because Gaius said he hasn’t seen you. Have you been in the tavern again?”

This time Merlin didn’t both to hide his scowl. Gwaine looked confused, probably because Merlin was rarely in the tavern and Gwaine was the one who would know.

Merlin turned the conversation away from any discussion of the tavern. As much as he hated to admit it, the tavern excuse had come in handy before. It was best if he didn’t burn any bridges. “I didn’t see Gaius.”

“You live with the court physician and you didn’t go to him when you were sick.” Arthur motioned for him to close the door, all the while looking like he was torn between calling Merlin a liar or an idiot. Or possibly both.

“Well, no.”

“ _Idiot_.”

There it was.

“I don’t ask about everything. I just needed sleep. He has more important things to do.” Merlin argued, throwing a look towards Gaius who merely shrugged off the concern. There was a strange twinkle in the old man’s eyes that Merlin really hoped he was imagining, but most likely wasn’t.

 _Traitor,_ he mouthed towards Gaius when Arthur finally glanced away. The physicians merely raised his eyebrow questioningly.

“Nevermind.” Arthur waved him off. “This meeting concerns…delicate matters which I’m sure you’ve taken it upon yourself to figure out already. Sit down so we can get started.”

“We’re waiting on Percival.” Gwaine pointed out, looking strangely sober for the time of day it was.

“Is something wrong?” Arthur asked, glancing at the occupants of the room. Everyone exchanged looks, but no one offered anything noteworthy, “He’s not often late.”

“It’s a bad week.” Gwaine said finally. “He just needs some time to himself. I don’t know why, but he asked not to be bothered. I assumed it was something to with, well, his family. He’s always been quiet about the topic.”

“Everyone’s taking holidays this week, is it?” Arthur said without any bite. He truly didn’t sound put-out. Then added after a moment, “I would have preferred everyone here for this. I wanted to bring this up here, before the council gets word and attempts to tear apart any argument I make.”

“Don’t bother him, Princess. Perce is never quite right this time of year. He’s even quieter than normal and hardly eats. Have you ever seen that man eat? He could clear your castle stores, normally. Besides, I think he said he would be here, just late.” Gwaine, again. Oddly enough, the knight seemed concerned. It was no secret that Gwaine and Percival were close—and if Gwaine was apprehensive, then something was probably wrong.

“Hmm.” Apparently, Arthur caught the concern as well and only nodded, dropping the subject for the time being.

Arthur cleared his throat, only just beginning to open his mouth to begin speaking when the door burst open and nearly crashed into the wall.


	7. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merlin goes through his first harsh winter outside the walls of the castle he grew up within.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, we're back with another chapter. Hopefully there aren't too many mistakes this week. I'm in professional school and we have a few high stakes exams (gotta love cumulative exams) next week so my focus has been a little off. 
> 
> Thanks to everyone whose taken the time to review and feel free to continue to drop your comments and thoughts in the section below! I love interacting with y'all!
> 
> Now I have to go brush up on my surgical skills before they kick me out :)

And round the world I’ll beg my bread,  
Until my parents shall wish me dead,  
Iss guh day thoo avorneen slawn.  
**Siuil A Run – Celtic Woman**

* * *

_The lost years..._

The rather large village, while having many people, didn’t have many opportunities for a boy without parents or credibility. He knew precisely what they were seeing and could understand the mistrustful looks the villagers kept sending his way. He was dirty, even for a peasant, from stumbling through the forest before coming across Dindrane and Percival. He’d refused to clean his face and body, afraid that he might somehow be recognized because of how close he was to Dracæne still.

He hated this hiding…this running. He felt like the coward Cybêl claimed he was. But, in the end, his father was right. Merlin couldn’t fight yet. He wasn’t strong enough to even get rid of the curse that forced his out of his homeland.

One day, he would be stronger. One day, he would go _home_.

Today was not that day.

So the mud and dirt was still caked to his skin and face. His hair was a mess; he hadn’t had it cut recently after his father claimed that no child in the royal family had their hair cut except for the occasional trim once they began their education on the responsibilities of being a future king. It was a matted mess already, clumped in such a way that Merlin was not looking forward to taking care of it.

He couldn’t stomach the thought of cutting it off yet, not if it wasn’t necessary.

Taking in the glances that most of the villagers was sending him, he left to find a river. Now that he was much further from Dracaene, there was less risk of being recognized, and he could take care of the dirt and mud.

There was a small stream to the south of the village. It was small and only really there because of a hard storm that had passed by the previous night, but it would do. The water was cold against his skin due to the oncoming winter, but the dirt flowed off his skin freely, leaving behind a pale, bruised boy. The wrists were particularly bad, he noticed, wondering how he hadn’t seen that before. Deep red lines were engraved into his skin, scabbed over from where they had bled. They weren’t too worrisome—they probably wouldn’t even scar.

The bruises were much more frequent, mottling his chest and legs mostly, though there were some on his arms. That was strange actually, because he didn’t remember when those could have occurred. When he was taken perhaps? Or after, when he’d been unconscious?

His hair took much longer to sort out. The mud was caked in almost impossibly, and he feared that he would have to cut it anyway, but after a few minutes of prevalent struggling he managed to get it sorted for the most part. It would do.

When he walked through the village the second time, no one went out of the way to avoid touching him in passing, but he felt much more invisible. Their eyes passed over him, never really seeing him. Children ran by, tagging their friends in the streets which echoed with laugher and talk. It was a busy place—an easy place to become just another face in the crowd.

At the same time, it was a small enough place that everyone knew their neighbors—he was still a stranger there.

The first friendly face he came across was an older man, grey only just beginning to creep into his brown beard, who had eyes that seemed warm with early wrinkles that showed a lifetime of smiling. He was walking alone, his hands full of what must have been recent purchases from the market that day. His face was one of the few that wasn’t completely dismissive towards Merlin, either.

“Sir?” He mumbled, keeping his head down, “Do you know of any work here?”

The man stopped immediately, his small smile wavering. His eyes seemed to bore into Merlin, taking in his appearance. “No’ as far as I know.”

“Oh.” That was—not good. Winter was approaching soon and he needed to find somewhere to stay. There was no way to get to another large village in time to secure a position anywhere, and he hadn’t the means to live a winter in the forests. He’d be dead by the first morning.

That alone sent a chill down his back.

The man seemed to read something on Merlin’s face, “Where are your parents?”

“Dead.” Merlin said plainly, hiding his face. He never was a good liar and he didn’t want the man to read the lie plain as day on his face. “Are you sure?”

“Royse.” The man said shortly, pointing towards a larger house down the road a bit. It was in slightly better condition than any of the other buildings within sight, but only slightly. “She mi’ have somethin’ for you. Sometimes she does.”

Without another word, the man continued on his way. Merlin didn’t move for a few moments, trying to process what happened. Friendly faces, it seemed, weren’t what they usually were. Dread creeped into his skin. Of course. He’d forgotten. He wasn’t a prince anymore—these people just saw him as another stray orphan, a beggar from another village perhaps.

Life, it seemed, wouldn’t get any easier.

* * *

Royse was a strict lady, with two daughters not much older than Merlin himself. Both girls were just as somber as their mother, with pretty features but faces that were worn from a life of hard work. They all had blonde hair, pulled back tightly into knots above their head. None of the three spared him a glance when he introduced himself at first, all rushing about to complete work that was synchronized enough that it must have been a daily routine.

Thus, there wasn’t much need for help around their home. The family also happened to own a tavern next door, which he figured was probably the only place he could possibly be of any help.

“Work?” Royse had said, surprised, when he asked if there was anything to be done. “There’s always work, boy. But I don’t have any coin. That’s why you’re here. And I haven’t any.” She repeated the last line firmly, as if she’d said it many times before.

She turned her back, clearly uninterested any longer. Mentally, Merlin was panicking—what was he going to do if he didn’t find work? “Ma’am,” he said quietly—politely as possible despite the anxiety of the entire situation, “I don’t need money,” that was a lie, really, but it wasn’t a necessity right away. He wasn’t actually trying to buy passage to Camelot, like he’d told Cee and Dindrane. If he survived the winter, he could easily move on, and find work elsewhere. “Just a place to stay the winter. If I could work—I just need shelter. Please.”

Royse, her back still to him froze, then her shoulders seemed to shrink. Something akin to hope sparked, ut Merlin tried not to look overeager, “There’s a storage closet above the tavern, by the rooms I rent out,” she said suddenly. “It’s a mess, but large enough. If you help out, I’d be willing to give you the space for a time.”

A closet didn’t sound promising, but he would have taken the corner of a stable by that point, so he agreed quickly. “Do you need anything done now, ma’am?"

The older lady waved him away, “My youngest daughter, Ibb, will show you the room. It needs cleaned before you can stay there. Consider that your job for today. I’ll sort out what’s to be done with you.”

Merlin, inwardly, was confused—he’d expected to be put to work right away, but Royse just looked like she wanted him out of her sight as soon as possible. Royse called Ibb, who was probably about Merlin’s own age, over, but lowered her voice so only he could hear just before the girl reached her mother’s side, “I won’t pretend to like you, boy. I won’t let a child die, but you will earn your keep. Take care not to forget that.”

When she released his arm, there were the faint impressions of fingerprints embedded in his skin

He covered the marks with his sleeve, blank-faced, and followed the meek girl next door. It was early in the morning and closed, so Ibb took him upstairs immediately. There were a few closed doors—“Room mum rents out.” Ibb had muttered before pushing him along—but they didn’t stop until they reached the last one, this door lacking any sort of lock.

“Here.”

Ibb opened the door and Merlin tried to peer into the dark space, blinking until his eyes adjusted to the darkness. Luckily, the room was larger than a normal closet, and probably could have been a very small bedroom. But it was not a room large enough for an adult to sleep and move about comfortably, which was probably the reason it was delegated into being a closet.

The walls were thick and intact—they would keep out the cold, which was what truly mattered.

The room was a mess, dusty enough that the things inside probably hadn’t actually been used in years. Ibb left him to work, pointing out where he could get the things he could use before she left to finish her own chores.

He’d never been so relieved in his life.

Winter came early that year. Fall had only just began when the first flurry hit, burying everything in snow as deep as his knees. Not once that season did the snow ever seem to let up. The work he was given split his time between outside and inside—most of his work consisted of helping inside the tavern, keeping the guests as happy as he could without actually being seen.

He dreaded the time he spent outside in the bitter cold, aiding Royse by fetching water from the town well, which was a ten minute walk from her home, as well as chopping whatever wood he could manage with his small frame. He always came back with a supply that seemed to impress even her stoic façade, and she’d been suspicious the first few times he dragged the load back, but that had disappeared when the fire in neither her home or the tavern ever ran out of dry wood.

Merlin wasn’t about to mention how much magic he had to use to keep up with her demands, as well as get them done before frostbite could claim his fingers or toes.

He fell into his bed, which was a pallet on the floor that Royse supplied after she noticed the bruises begin to appear on his face and arms from sleeping on the rough floor, late every night and woke before dawn every morning. Nightmares made his thrash in his sleep, and he always woke up with new bruises after bashing his head on the floor. It was exhausting, but it was keeping him alive.

Ibb warmed up to him slowly, occasionally keeping him company on his walks to the well. Her sister, Amice, was more cold towards him, and acted much as her mother and the other villagers did.

Which was to say, not well.

It hadn’t taken long for news of the young boy who was working for Royse to spread around the town, but the whispers were mostly trivial gossip. He hadn’t cared what they were saying about him at first, but then the gossip turned bitter—and so much worse.

The speculations around town, he realized, were that he was either a bastard, born out of wedlock and eventually told to leave, or he was the son of a whore, who had no real purpose in the world. All in all, the villagers were under the assumption that he was the lowest of the low, not even loved by his parents.

It hurt—those whispers.

But he never sought to discourage them. When he heard the whispers stop when he came into sight, or heard the tail end of a conversation, he only gritted his teeth and continued on his way. It was better to live under the rumors, where no one could ever guess his real identity.

Unfortunately, the villagers seemed to take that as permission and had taken to calling him either ‘the bastard", or if they were feeling nice that day, simply ‘boy’ seemed to do. They never once asked for a name. Even Ibb avoided that subject, carefully stepping around ever calling him anything at all.

He tried not to mind the names and the taunts, constantly keeping his head down and doing his work. There was no doubt; he would be moving on once the winter turned to summer. The moment it was warm enough for his to cope on his own, he would leave.

“Without a word,” he mumbled to himself, warming his hands by rubbing them on his rough pants, then blowing air into them. Deep down, he wished he knew a spell to keep himself warm, but nothing ever seemed to work when he tried to will it. “I’ll leave at night and never say a thing.” He sighed, giving up on warming his fingers, to continue hiking through the waist-deep snow to a house on the opposite side of the village. Royse had given a message that morning that was to be delivered, but wasn’t willing to let her daughters walk through the sub-zero temperatures to do so.

So it fell to him to get the message delivered before nightfall. It was his last job and he was dismissed to do as he pleased afterward. It was a rare early day, and he was eager to finish, so he practically ran the letter to its destination. He returned to Royse’s home not half a candlemark later, intending to inform Royse that the delivery was done, but was forced to duck out of sight when he heard the trademark sour voice of Amice just around the corner.

The last thing he wanted was to be accused of eavesdropping when he hadn’t even been doing so—intentionally. Merlin was looking around for a way out, when Amice’s words finally did drift back to him, “—told you not to talk to that boy, Ibb.”

“I just—” Ibb was much quieter than her sister, but that wasn’t to be unexpected. Amice was the friend of everyone in town, except Merlin himself, and Ibb had very few friends. Other than Merlin, of course, but he wasn’t sure whether they were considered friends or not.

“He’s a waste of good space.” Amice bit back. “Don’t talk to him unless you want to become even more of a recluse. He has no prospects. He’ll die early. His type seem to. Don’t get attached. You know what mother said.”

“I know.”

“Good. So do it.” Merlin couldn’t see Amice, but he was almost positive she rolled her eyes, “I’m just looking out for you, little sister.”

_Oh._

He knew that a friendship in this town was too much to ask for—Ibb didn’t deserve for her reputation to be dragged through the mud because of the rumors about him. He only planned to be there for a short time. She would probably live her entire lifetime in the boundaries of that village. She would be judged by her dalliances, long after he left.

Merlin went back the way he came, sure that Royse could figure out that the message was delivered without his confirmation.

The rest of the winter was long without not even Ibb to talk to. She seemed to not take notice of his different behavior at first and Merlin became very good at avoiding her. He took to fetching the water first thing in the morning, before anyone else woke and kept himself too busy to spare her more than a quick glance.

She seemed to realize he was purposefully avoiding her after a week, and stopped trying to catch him unawares. He was thankful for that much at least, even if the loneliness and lack of human contact was beginning to drive him half-crazy.

He hardly needed to drag anyone else down this road with him.

He spent the remaining nights until summer came huddled on a pallet. The cold still reached him even behind the thick walls and the only blanket he found was thin and had a few holes that made it impossible to trap his body heat beneath it.

It was a slow, exhausting winter, and when the snow finally fell from the trees and the snow began to disappear from the ground, he nearly cheered. Only Ibb seemed to notice his increasing excitement as spring approached, pulling him aside one day when he couldn’t avoid her—she’d left him alone for so long he’d completely forgotten that she might try again.

“I know why you’re avoiding me.” She whispered to him, “And I know you don’t like it here. Just—tell me when you’re going to leave, okay? Don’t just disappear one day. I would always wonder what happened.”

“I can’t promise anything.” He replied quickly, never meeting her eyes. He wouldn’t promise anything—because he hated breaking promises. A promise was on his honour—and he couldn’t besmirch that. Even if his honour meant nothing to these people, it meant everything to him.

“Please consider?” She seemed to expect that answer and only sighed after a few moments. They stood awkwardly in the corner, but she left as her mother called her from the back room. Across the room, Amice watched the exchange with narrowed eyes and crossed arms.

He left two weeks later, when Royse’s husband finally returned home after a season in another kingdom. The man was a merchant, and their lives depended on his success. He’d returned sullen, with half of his wares still in his cart. It wasn’t good news, but Merlin took the opportunity to use his arrival as a distraction to pack of his few possessions (a couple changes of clothes and a neckerchief he’d brought with the few coins that Royse did occasionally hand him). The neckerchief had become necessary after he realized that some of the scars on his back reached high enough to peak over the back of his shirt.

The whispers and stares were bad enough without them questioning the scarred, black-as-ink lines that was mostly hidden. A neckerchief was just large enough to hide what his shirt could not.

He was nearly out of town, when he felt a hand on his arm and turned to see Ibb’s warm brown eyes staring at him. “I’m sorry.” He said, motioning in the direction he was going. “I need to leave.”

“I know that, but I told you to tell me when you did.”

“Didn’t have time. Just have to leave.” He did. There had to be other villages around, close enough that he could walk but far enough that the rumors started here wouldn’t spread there as well.

“Why now?” She demanded, crossing her arms. “Why secretly?”

“No one will miss me. It hardly matters whether I say something.” He told her softly, not expecting her to understand.

She didn’t. “I care. It’s not fair how people treat you.”

“Doesn’t matter if it’s fair. It just _is_.” His life as a prince had taught him that lesson well. Some had privileges and others didn’t. He’d lived both sides of that life now—he saw so much more than any other boy of thirteen years.

“You won’t stay?”

He was silent for a minute, looking back at the town that hated him so much, “I can’t.”

“I wouldn’t either.” She shook her head, then handed a small sack to him. “Take this. It’s just food and—” She stopped, biting her lip.

The reaction was curious. “And what?”

“Nothing. Just take it.”

He went to open the bag and she stopped him quickly, tying the strings even as he was still trying to untie it.

“Please don’t. Wait until you leave.” She was still biting her lip and he was even more curious after her quick reaction. “It’s just—a few coins, is all. Mum said you would need something.”

He snorted, and she shrugged apologetically. They both knew the truth that Ibb wasn’t voicing—Royse didn’t care for Merlin and wouldn’t give him anymore than she already had, especially if he was finally leaving and out of her hair. “You won’t get in trouble for this?” He was sure it was stolen, whatever it was.

“I won’t. But I would suggest you find a village very far away from here.”

She waved, taking off towards her house, and he was torn. Either he could take it or he could attempt to give it back, and risk not being believed. He would likely end up executed for the crime. Sticking around any longer would mean the same thing.

So he turned and left the village, not glancing back once at the people who hated him so much.

Merlin ignored the dirty feeling that crept over his skin, hoping that his assumption that she’d stolen the money was wrong. She’d practically confirmed it, so all he could do was run and hope no one caught him.

Clever girl.

It isn’t until several days later that he’s running again, this time from an angry creature that seemed like an odd mismatched of a lizard and a boar. He nearly lost his life when his foot caught on a branch and sent him crashing to the ground. The creature was about to impale him when a hand reached out, then pulled him up and out of immediate danger.

They careen up a steep ravine that the creature can’t seem to climb and then, once they were out of danger the stranger laughed and Merlin held out his hand to another person for the first time since he was taken away from his homeland, “My name’s Merlin.”

He’s not sure why he used that name at first. He’d been called Merlin by only his parents for years, but he could hardly go by Emrys now. It was unique, noticeable. It would be known if his parents were looking for him.

A small part of him felt smug, remembering his parent’s cautious words about destiny. Take that, destiny, he thought mentally, nearly gleeful that he was making his own decisions for the first time in his life.

The stranger grinned, taking the hand immediately and said only one word, “ _Lance_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our boy Merlin is 13 in this chapter.
> 
> ...and I freaking love Lance so of course he was going to show up sooner rather than later. He knows all of Merlin's secrets, doesn't he?


	8. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I won't even try to make excuses for why this is so late. I was crazy busy. 
> 
> Don't go into a medical field if you want to have a life y'all. (I'm joking, kind of)

The stitches on the tapestry say  
“Everything in time  
Will find its way home again”  
But I'm tired of cryin'  
No second chances  
Don't knock on my door  
 **No Second Chance – Blackmore’s Night**

* * *

“Percival. Good of you to join us.” Arthur said to the knight, after everyone had settled back into their chairs after being scared witless by the sudden noise. However, if one were to ask any of the knights later, they would have claimed that they were merely jumping up to aid the king in his fight against the latest contender to the crown or perhaps the next monster in line to attack Camelot. They were perfectly composed, of course.

Merlin, on the other hand, begged to differ and had to cover his laugh with an ill attempt at a cough. Arthur sent him another one of his infamous glares over his shoulder then motioned for Percival to linger in his usual spot, a chair across the table, but to the right some ways.

“Right,” Arthur said finally, after the occupants of the room took their eyes off Percival. He looked pale and miserable, quiet as usual, but uncharacteristically dour. It clearly disturbed everyone to see the large knight appear so depressed. “Now that everyone’s here, we have important matters to discuss.”

Merlin tried to ignore the look Gaius sent him, then had to settle for an abrupt shake of his head to deny whatever the man was trying to accuse him of now.

“I received a message this morning. Normally, a correspondence from another kingdom wouldn’t warrant concern, but the relations Camelot, and my father, had with this kingdom were…strained in years past.”

“Sire?” Leon interrupted, turning towards Arthur when the rest of the room turned towards him in surprise, “Isn’t this a matter for the council? Relations between kingdoms has always been dealt by them in the past.”

Arthur sighed, “If I wanted a long-winded argument, then this would have been brought up at the council meeting this morning. As it is, I want your opinions on this. There are few outside this room who I trust, and even fewer who would speak to benefit the kingdoms and its people, rather than just themselves. There are _issues_ that would make the answer clear to the members of the council, but I’m not so sure.”

Merlin’s eyes widened before he had the presence of mind to compose himself, but he wasn’t so sure that his surprise was masked. He’d suspected that this was about Balinor and Hunith, his parents, but hearing confirmation of this was still somewhat unexpected. Even more surprising was that Arthur was still considering the matter.

The knights, and Gaius, all looked equally concerned, though for different reasons. Merlin was glad for his place at the back of the room. Everyone else was so focused on Arthur and there was no real reason for anyone to look at him. His lack of surprise might cause someone to wonder. Or perhaps not, he thought after a moment. Doubtless, many thought Arthur confided in him for a lot of things that no normal manservant would be allowed to hear. While this was usually very true, it wasn’t in this case.

So yes, subterfuge necessary. Very much so.

No one seemed like they knew what to say, until Gaius spoke up, “And the contents of this message?”

Arthur gave the room a rather rueful smile, “A king has asked for shelter for he and his wife, or an alliance if I so desired it because of an upheaval that’s occurring in their kingdom.”

“Not that I know much about politics, princess,” Gwaine said slowly. Arthur rolled his eyes at the nickname no amount of threats or beatings on the training field could rid him of, “But isn’t that the exact type of thing your council is made for? Amara is expecting me down at the tavern and—” Gwaine was halfway out of the seat before he was even finished speaking, his eyes clearly already envisioning things that Merlin did not want to know about.

“Sit _down_ , Gwaine. This is more important than your latest conquest.”

“Hey! I resent that. Amara is a perfectly respectful girl.” Gwaine’s smile twisted into a lecherous grin, “At least, for now. New in Camelot, you see…”

“Shh.” Lance nudged Gwaine, who sighed dramatically.

“Normally, I would give this to the council and let them argue.” Arthur relented, looking relieved that they were back on track. Merlin frowned—considering Arthur only got the message that morning, Arthur looked exhausted, as though just thinking about it was wearing him out. “However, the message was from King Balinor, of a kingdom to the north of here, called Dracæne.”

Merlin, already aware of the entire situation, took the moment to squash down his panic that came from the oddness of hearing Arthur saying his father name…his _kingdom’s_ name, and observe the reactions of his friends. Almost everyone looked confused, and Lance was mouthing the name, looking as though he was familiar with it. Merlin froze, thinking back and trying to remember whether he’d ever mentioned the kingdom in front of him, but he honestly couldn’t remember ever doing so, so he pushed the concern away for the moment.

Out of everyone, only Gaius stiffened in recognition, and Percival looked up abruptly, as though it was familiar to him as well.

Both of their reactions were expected though, what with Gaius being Hunith’s brother, and Percival’s past.

Meeting Percival for the first time—or the second, but the man hadn’t recognized him and Merlin never went out of his way to reintroduce himself because that would raise serious questions about his past that he couldn’t answer—had been a surprise, especially in Camelot. He’d never expressed an interest in leaving Essetir, and certainly not without his sister. He’d nearly called Percival _Cee_ a few times before he kicked the habit.

Learning that Percival had no living family, and that reuniting with Dindrane could never happen, had stung, but he was content knowing that Percival was alright, standing beside a leader that appreciated him. Percival and Dindrane’s home had been just over the border from Dracæne, meaning that they’d probably had plenty of visitors from there.

The name of the kingdom wasn’t banned in Essetir, as it was in Camelot, and plenty traveled between the two neighboring kingdoms.

“Dracenyah?” Gwaine stuttered out, and Merlin winced at the botched pronunciation. “Never heard of it.”

Luckily, he wasn’t the only one who knew something about the other kingdom. But whereas Merlin could hardly claim such knowledge, Gaius could. Gaius looked just as disturbed by Gwaine’s terrible pronunciation of his homeland, “Dracæne is how it is pronounced, Sir Gwaine.” The older man corrected, with the familiar accent that one only could ever truly use if one was native to the land, “It is also a land known for their firm tolerance, and wholehearted approval of magic.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Lance breathed, carefully keeping his gaze away from Merlin.

Arthur nodded. “I would normally have no problem with aiding them during their civil war, but the relations between Camelot and Dracæne have never been good. In fact, my father was always very vocal about his hatred towards King Balinor.”

“And if you turn down the plea?” A knight Merlin didn’t know quite so well, Kay, asked loudly, making great gestures with his hands to go alone with every word. Merlin winced when he knocked over a pitcher. “If they use magic, they probably aren’t the trustworthy type anyway.”

Gaius was the one who answered, “You would run the risk of retribution should they regain their position.” Arthur nodded in agreement, having clearly already thought about the possibility, “This also could be a very good chance to restore good graces between you and a kingdom that once were very prosperous together.”

This however, seemed to cause most of the room to blink in shock, Arthur leaned forward, not having heard this before, “We used to be peaceful with them then? I’m afraid my father rarely sought to tell me more about our prior relations with them.”

None of them mentioned what point Arthur was indicating—everyone already knew.

“Indeed, Sire,” Gaius bowed his head and clasped his hands together, gathering his thoughts, “Once, Balinor and your father were good friends. They grew up together.”

If anything, Arthur’s surprise _at least_ tripled. “My father never mentioned this.”

“I would think not,” Gaius soothed, “When Uther took his stance against magic and began the Great Purge, they broke apart when Balinor would not relent and ban magic. They never reconciled, though I know Balinor tried on several occasions, but both he and your father were very stubborn on the matter. No one knows why Balinor was always so repulsed by the idea of banning magic. Some have claimed that he himself practiced, but there has never been any proof.”

Merlin let out a slow breath. _He_ was the reason why Balinor never banned magic—it would have resulting the execution of his own son, and no friendship could stand up against the wellbeing of his family. Balinor did have magic, but only what being a Dragonlord naturally gifted him with. It was nothing outstanding, and he could have easily given it up at any time. Merlin, however, was a warlock and no warlock could survive without their magic.

Arthur was quiet for a few minutes, outwardly appearing composed, but Merlin knew he was just as shocked as everyone else on the inside. Then Arthur leaned forward, his elbows on his knees as he rubbed his forehead tiredly, “Okay. I can understand, I think. But I do have one question, Gaius. You speak of this _Balinor_ with some familiarity?”

It wasn’t a question, not really, but Gaius smiled softly in understanding. He knew exactly what Arthur was asking.

“I also once knew Balinor well.”

“How so?”

“He, while many years younger than me, was a good friend of mine.” Merlin watched Gaius face—and he wasn’t the only one who saw the indecision appear mere moments after he spoke those words.

Arthur was unnaturally observant that day, it seemed, because he saw the look as well, “And?”

Gaius’s shoulders seemed to shrink, in a clear show of assent. Merlin’s eyes widened—he’d kept his mouth shut for most of the meeting, but was Gaius really going to…? “Balinor is married to Hunith, my younger sister.”

The silence following the statement was tangible. Merlin was worried that most of the room would suffocate before they could truly take in the information.

“Your sister.” Arthur said flatly, looking as though he wasn’t sure what to say to that revelation, “Did my father know of your relation?”

“He did.”

“You are from…”

If not for the circumstances, Merlin would be absolutely ecstatic that he finally found something that rendered Arthur speechless. Hopefully, he wasn’t taking this as yet another betrayal.

“Dracæne.” Gaius raised an eyebrow. If Merlin hadn’t known better, then he would have thought Gaius was _amused_. “I am, but I haven’t returned in many years. I know little about the kingdom itself these days. I haven’t seen my sister since I left for Camelot when I was twenty and she was but five. Our letters stopped some thirty years ago, not long after her marriage.”

Arthur nodded, more to himself than to anyone else. He was clearly lost in thought, his words coming out slow at first. “You still know a great deal more than I about King Balinor and the Queen. I would like to offer assistance, but I am not comfortable with magic—and I don’t like the thought of bringing it purposefully into Camelot when we have no way to defend against most enchantments.”

Gaius bowed his head in acquiescence, “I can speak more about the subject with you, sire, later. If that is agreeable?”

“Thank you, Gaius. That would be helpful.” Arthur turned to speak to the knights, “Does anyone have any recent information that could be of use?”

Everyone turned in surprise when Percival cleared his throat, still looking terrible, but conscious enough to know that there was an issue he could speak on, “I lived close to the border between Essetir and Dracæne. I don’t know much.”

“Go on.”

“We had…many travelers stop by, with and without magic. None ever sought to hurt us. A few stayed and helped for a time, before they moved on.” Percival shrugged, “There were rumors about a battle, then, but nothing concrete. I left my village many years ago.”

It was probably the most any of them had ever heard come from Percival’s mouth, but his words were trusted as much as any other knight’s, even if he used the words much less frequently. Arthur was trying not to think about what those words meant for him—after all, he’d grown up being taught that magic could only be evil. If he sought this kingdom out and gave them his hand, it would incriminate both him and his father of being the evil he’d always thought the sorcerers were.

How many men had died beneath his blade, upon his command, who only were sentenced as such because of the magic they possessed? Not nearly as many as his father, but…?

How could he let injustice continue, if it was being done? He owed his people, the people of Camelot, the truth. If that meant investigating magic, so be it. He’d wondered, on and off, for several years about the nature of magic with wavering conviction. His father had seemed so sure, and magic had brought him nothing but pain.

Still, Arthur wasn’t as blind as some assumed and he’d seen things over the years—things that couldn’t be explained by anything other than magic, and some of those things helped him.

“Let me make sure I understand this—” Elyan, who’d been silent until then, broke in, probably looking like he was by far the most uncomfortable with the situation. He most likely was; he’d been mistrustful towards any whisper of magic ever since the druid boy, “We’re considering this?”

“Maybe,” Arthur shrugged. “I don’t know.”

Elyan nodded and crossed his arms, appearing as though he had nothing more to say.

“It sounds like you are, sire.” Leon said cautiously, “I will stand by whatever decision, but why?”

Arthur, on the other hand, seemed to expect this question, and after a quick, “The contents of this stay within this room,” and an agreement from everyone present, Arthur pulled the letter out of a pocket and passed it around the room.

It took quite a few minutes, even with it skipping Merlin because he was still lurking in the corner.

“To answer your question, Leon,” Arthur said, once more stowing away the letter for safekeeping. “Something tells me that this is the right path to take, but I cannot do anything so drastic without changing…”

“Everything.” Percival added.

Arthur agreed, ‘Everything.”

“It doesn’t have to,” Gwaine pointed out, snatching food from a plate and never quite catching Arthur eyes. “The letter doesn’t say you have to do anything other than allow them a safe place, right? There is no need for an alliance at all.”

Gaius, surprisingly, gave a quick motion of approval, “That is true, Sire. Considering the history between Camelot and Dracæne, they would understand your hesitance. You could also add a stipulation that they not use, or at least limit their use of magic while here. It would not be considered untoward, especially if you show them mercy.”

There was silence for a moment, then Lance spoke up, “As Leon said, we will support your decision, whatever that may be.” The rest of the knights agreed in their own ways with either nods or quick words.

Despite this, Arthur didn’t look like he was any closer to an answer. “Thank you. I think I need time to think on this alone. Merlin, stay here.” The knights recognized the cue to leave and did so, Gwaine and Percival immediately heading in a direction that Merlin greatly suspected would take them to the tavern, while everyone else dispersed elsewhere. Lance sent him a look which he could only interpret as curiosity before he too disappeared around a corner.

Merlin closed the door once everyone was gone, only he and Arthur left in the chambers.

“Arthur?”

“Merlin,” The king said back, but he was deep in thought and his voice hardly carried the usual bantering tone, “What do you think? I noticed you were oddly quiet. Usually I can’t get you to shut up.”

Something in Merlin’s chest jumped—not from the curse, but from his own fear. He hardly dared to speak about his own kingdom in fear that something would be too close to the truth he wasn’t allowed to speak and one of Cybêl’s poisonous lies would come out instead.

“I’m just a servant.” He quoted simply. In retrospect, it probably wasn’t the best thing to say.

He was right. Arthur scowled, “Despite the fact that I tried my hardest to get it through your thick skull years ago that we cannot be friends, you have kept the stubborn belief that we are. Now, you’re going to try to pull the social class card?”

Merlin wasn’t sure if Arthur wanted an answer or not, so he just blinked, then cast his eyes about the room trying to find something that could be done.

“Will you listen to me?”

“Didn’t get to read the letter at the meeting.” Merlin threw back. Still, _technically_ the truth. “You didn’t give enough information to make any kind of opinion, did you?”

“Oh, please.” Arthur dismissed, “I know you read it earlier. You’re hardly what I’d call subtle. And no one has enough answers. That’s the problem, _Mer_ lin _._ ”

Well, damn.

He wasn’t exactly wrong.

“I think Gaius might be better to ask.”

Arthur stood, exasperation clear on his face. Clearly, evading Arthur’s questions was not an effective strategy this time.

So Merlin took the easy way out, and practically scrambled out the door before Arthur had the presence of mind to stop him, throwing a few words behind him, “I’ll bring you breakfast in the morning, sire.”

Arthur was going to kill him for that one, but he needed time to think.

Both of them did.

* * *

Merlin made a quick stop by the library, huffing in disappointment when he found Geoffrey at his post, only just beginning to look through a lengthy tome. It was looking like it was another all-nighter for Geoffrey. Normally, he would just sneak past the old librarian, but the library was set up so that the hidden magical tomes were through a door hidden behind a tapestry…a tapestry directly behind Geoffrey chair.

There was nothing that could be done that night. Merlin could only hope that Geoffrey would choose a night during the upcoming week to do anything besides sit in a dusty old library (Really, when did that man sleep? Or eat?)

He retreated from the doorway before a guard caught him snooping, taking a turn away from the direction that would lead his to Gaius’ chambers after a second’s pause.

 _Kilgharrah?_ He reached out with his mind, until he felt the familiar presence. _Change of plan. We can meet tonight. Soon._

_Wise decision, Merlin._

* * *

They met in their usual place, far from Camelot. The castle could only be seen faintly in the distance, the light of the lanterns only pinpricks of light. It was a chilly night, and Merlin pulled the cloak he’d snatched before leaving the castle tighter around his thin body, shivering.

The dragon was already in the clearing, curled up near a small fire that was once likely a small tree. “Subtle.” Merlin said dryly, sitting down next to the burning forestry and warming his hands near the flame.

“I am a dragon.” Kilgharrah said, matter of factly, “No one will attack me.”

“Camelot is right there,” Merlin pointed, wondering if old age was getting to the beast, “Anyone could come and investigate. Do you want rumors about a dragon on the loose making it back to Camelot?”

“What the king hears is hardly my concern.”

“Of _course_ it's not.”

“Nevermind that.” Kilgharrah stood, shaking his wings lightly to dispel some leaves that had settled on them, “I have come about your situation.”

“My curse, you mean.” Merlin said, feeling the odd fight in his chest. The silencing spell normally didn’t allow him to hint in any way at his predicament, but the dragon’s presence always helped make the fight a bit easier. It was at least possible to mention it.

“Indeed.” The dragon came closer, until he was so close that Merlin could feel the fiery breath over his skin and the smoke curl around him. “Doubly cursed. I can smell the blood curse. Magic of the darkest source. I cannot break it.”

Merlin nodded, his heart settling his in throat at that confirmation. He’d known that even a dragon’s abilities were limited, but knowing that he could not help was frustrating.

“But the second.”

Merlin looked up hopefully. The silencing spell was the worst of the two, in his opinion. If he could only speak the truth about what happened…well, he wouldn’t go home, but it was a step in the right direction.

But the dragon looked confused. “It was placed on you around the time of the blood curse.”

“The same day.” He confirmed.

Kilgharrah sighed, not looking pleased at all “That is what I was afraid of. You know little of magical laws of nature, yes?”

“Gaius books never mentioned them.”

“They wouldn’t.” Kilgharrah cast a look towards the stars, before finally backing away from Merlin, “Bragwen’s Law, you humans call it. That which is placed in temporal conjunction with power, may be bound with similar power and held with increasing strength.”

Merlin blinked, his eyes only on the fire, as he tried to wrap his mind around what the words could possibly mean. “Does that mean,” he said slowly, as he settled on the only conclusion he could make, “that since the spell was cast on me after the blood curse, it can’t be broken unless the blood curse is first?”

“If the spell was cast quickly enough? Yes, young warlock, I’m afraid so.”

Anger—anger he’d never anticipated he could feel so strongly—surged up within him. He clenched his fists, trying to force down the sudden influx of magic that was always accompanied by his strong emotions. “Why?” He said, with barely restrained anger. “Why is this happening to me? Why can it never end? Every time I think there’s _hope_ —”

“How quick was she?”

“I don’t remember,” Merlin tried to think back, but his memories, especially his younger ones were turning hazy. It had been years since he thought about the say his life changed—and he’d always pushed those memories away. They were by far the faintest. “Quick though. Within minutes.”

“We can try to break the spell.” Kilgharrah said, “Dragonsbreath, combined with your magical strength, is extremely powerful. But I doubt the attempt with come to fruition. The spell—”

“They were too close together.” Merlin said, mostly to himself, “is that what you’re trying to say?”

“An hour.” Was all the dragon said, “Anything cast within the hour.”

“It was.” Against his will, the little spirit that was left fell away.

“Close your eyes. Focus your magic inward. We will try, but if it burns—I will stop.” Merlin assented, already disheartened, but followed the directions anyway and allowed the magic to rise around him. Outwardly, he probably looked ridiculous to anyone who stumbled upon him, but had any other magic-user come across the scene, it would have left them in awe. A golden aura rose, his hair flying wildly as the dragon breathed outward. For a few moments, there was a strange silence as power of two different types filled the forest for miles.

Then Merlin’s eyes flashed open, a scream tearing from his throat as a thousand daggers sunk into his back. It was a staggering pain that locked his muscles in place even as they spasmed, his eyes rolling back in his head after mere moments. The old wounds on his back broke open in some places, bleeding freely, and he fell to his knees as Kilgharrah stopped with a heavy sigh.

“That’s it then.” Merlin said weakly, doing his best to reign in his magic. The last thing he needed was to draw any witchhunters to his location.

The dragon bowed his head, “Perhaps, but many tunnels are dark and end in misery turned to sorrow. But some always end in light.”

“What does that even mean, you overgrown lizard?”

“Hope.” Kilgharrah watched the boy’s face fall. Though he was an optimistic person, the night’s events had clearly worn him thin. “Find the druids. I never cared for blood magic and my knowledge of the subject is limited. They may have information I am not privy to.”

And that was that, it seemed, because Kilgharrah merely inclined his head in some semblance respect before taking off and disappearing into the distance.


	9. Chapter Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, a brief glimpse at Merlin's life before Camelot.

I am boy, I am man,  
The face of the changing land,  
And I have been your constant guide,  
From your caves on the mountainside,  
We have walked hand in hand.  
 **Antlered Crown and Standing Stone – Damh the Bard**

* * *

_The lost years..._

Lancelot was only a few years older than Merlin’s own thirteen summers and had been away from his parents for only a few seasons.

“They were not me overly encouraging of the future I want.” He explained to Merlin that night, as the sixteen-year-old knelt by the fire. “My entire life, I’ve only wanted one thing and they told me it was a pointless dream. I should accept the role that fate has put before me and become a farmer, like my father and his father before him.”

“A farmer?” Merlin asked, slightly deadpanned. Even at his age, Merlin could appreciate the fact that Lance was bloody gorgeous—farming just didn’t seem right somehow. On top of that, he was obviously more of a fighter than a farmer.

“Exactly.” Lance said, hitting two sticks together particularly roughly, producing sparks, but no fire, “I _want_ to be a knight. More than anything. My parents never liked to see me train, so I’m rusty, but one day I’ll be good enough to appeal to a king for a knight’s position.”

Merlin was tempted to point towards Dracæne, but he had no idea what environment he would be sending his newfound friend into. It didn’t seem right to point and hope that whatever fight his parents were fighting at the moment was over. In fact, it probably wasn’t and he’d be sending Lance to die.

And that’s all it would be for the sixteen-year-old, a messy death in the heat of battle against men much stronger than he and sorcerers who were not afraid to kill.

Dracæne would gladly accept Lance. Anyone who had the will to become a knight could if they display enough loyalty and proficiency with weapons. Those who were not talented with either weapons or magic weren’t turned away either. They were aided by other masters and knights, should they wish, until they reached a stage where they would be useful in protecting the kingdom.

Lance, while rusty, was not terrible with a sword. He needed practice, but Merlin’s kingdom would have taken him and put him underneath another knight in a heartbeat. So the young boy kept his mouth shut—because he could protect his new friend, if nothing else.

The bitter feeling that came with aiding Lance find another kingdom to fight for was practically tangible and tasted sour in his mouth. Merlin was not selfish enough to sacrifice another because of a feeling. Lance would find somewhere one day—a king would be a fool to ever turn him away.

Within minutes of seeing Lance, Merlin knew things that others couldn’t possibly know. Lance was loyal to a fault, to the point where Merlin wondered if it was possible for the other boy to commit any sort of treasonous act at all. He’d been forced to grow up quickly as well. That much was obvious simply by looking at him. He was mature for a boy his age, but underneath his skin he still itched for adventure. His hands craved a sword, while his mind sought to protect.

“What will you do?” Merlin asked, finally taking the sticks from Lance when it became clear that he was no closer to coaxing a fire out of them. With his back to the future knight, Merlin rubbed the sticks together, but whispered the words that would spark a flame. From there, he inveigled the small spark into a fire large enough to warm them both.

Lance watched closely, but didn’t seem overly concerned, “You’re quite good at that.” Merlin only shrugged in response, not up to telling him that he really wasn’t that good with fires, just with magic involving fires, so Lance just went on to answer his question instead. “I’m just traveling for now. I practice when I can, and one day I’ll become a knight. I’m traveling with an…odd group right now, but some are good enough that they have things they can teach me.”

Lance’s quick dismissal of the group he was travelling with instantly sparked Merlin’s interest and he sat forward a bit, “Who are you with?”

“I don’t know any of them personally. It’s more convenience that anything else.” Lance said slowly, deliberate in a way that made it clear he was choosing his words carefully. Rather than dissuade him, this actually sparked Merlin’s interest even more. He wasn’t stupid enough to not see that this was something Lance didn’t want to talk about just yet.

It was just as well. Merlin hadn’t been a prince for so long for nothing. He knew that there were certain things that required trust and if Lance gave information to someone only hours after meeting them, then he wouldn’t live long as a knight or a commoner.

“Oh.”—was all he said, watching Lance’s tenseness run out of his shoulders at the dismissal. “Where will you go then, when you become a knight?”

“Camelot.” He said it with such surety that Merlin was taken back for a moment. “It’s where I’m from and I would like to be able to find for my home.” Lance shrugged. “That’s not for a long time though. I’ve got lots of time to practice until then.”

“I thought—” Merlin tried to process his thoughts, trying to place information, but he was coming up blank, “Doesn’t Camelot have rules? Harsher than most?”

At first, Lance was silent, “I don’t know. I haven’t spent much time in Camelot. And I never had access to official records like those.”

“Hnn.” As much as he wished that he’d paid better attention in his lessons on foreign kingdoms, he was pretty sure that the actually rules had never come up before. Camelot, while a kingdom with whom they had the most tension with, wasn’t actually his parents’ greatest concern, so it hadn’t been his either.

“And you?” Lance asked, looking genuinely curious, “You’re, what, ten? Eleven? Bit young to be traveling alone.” 

Merlin scowled, “I’m thirteen.”

“Still.”

“I don’t have anywhere to go.” He said after a moment, “My family is—gone. Since last year and no one wants to feed another mouth right now, so I’m looking for something else.”

They spent three days together, never really traveling. It was more a companionship, really, in a desolate forest where the only company was one’s own heavy breath in the wind. Merlin had spent so long being looked at like he was dung, having a friend was novel. He didn’t even question how odd it was that Lance was apparently traveling alone at the moment—that he’d ditched the group he’d supposedly been traveling with.

Everything was calm between the two of them. They were both mature for their ages, a trait that was doubtlessly instilled in them by the weight of responsibility.

Of course, there was a catch. There always was. And that catch appeared a few nights later, when the two young boys returned to the campfire, in an effort to chase off the lingering winter chill.

“It’s been bothering me. Where are you from? I can’t place your accent at all and I’ve been almost everywhere.”

Merlin cursed under his breath, low enough that it could only be heard by his own ears. The first person he’d even spoken to in his natural cadence had picked up on the subtle difference that everyone in his kingdom had, which was just his luck. He’d gotten tired of the accent he’d been forced to put on for the winter season and had dropped it immediately after leaving.

He’d forgotten to pick it back up again.

“Nowhere, really. My parents and I went everywhere when I was growing up. We never stayed anywhere for very long at all. I might have picked up a little bit of everything.”

His excuse seemed to work. Lance nodded as though it was a perfectly reasonable explanation.

There was a moment of silence over the fire, as they both thought of what their lives had become and the sacrifices they’d made—willing on one’s part and completely unwilling on the other’s. But they were both torn from those thoughts when the bushes, several yards away from their fire, rustled abruptly, then stopped. The night was dead silent, when both boys went still, their eyes on the bushes suspiciously. The sounds of the forest, was gone. Even the animals were silent, save a bird continuing its song far in the distance.

Lance immediately reached for the slightly rusted sword, dulled by years of fighting that no amount of sharpening could ever hope to correct, His hands wrapped around the hilt and Merlin tried not to notice the way his hands shook at first, and the way the boy held the sword—correctly, but without any of the confidence he’d seemed to have only minutes earlier.

It was clear that Lance wasn’t lying when he said he was mostly untrained.

Merlin bit back a groan as Lance stood, taking a stance that put Merlin almost completely out of the sight of anyone who would happen to be watching from the bushes. The younger of the two scowled, reaching for a longer branch that would be more suitable for an older man to use as a walking stick, but it would make do. It would have to.

His eyes were drawn to the sword, as ragtag and pitiful as it really was, wishing he could make Lance see that the entire situation would end much better if Merlin held the sword. He was a competent swordsman, for a thirteen year old. Even though it had been a year since he held steel in his hands, it was an art that he never forgot. That was…impossible. Most of the last few years of his life, save the last year, had been spent practicing the craft that his father had feared he had no skill in. Luckily, that was not true. It took work, and much more practice than any other, but he became more than capable.

As far as Lance knew, Merlin was merely from a traveling family that had seen a lot of the world. Having skill enough to hold his own against an adult would raise eyebrows. Lance would be suspicious and while Merlin could probably pass off any skill as luck, any amount of suspicion could carry over. After all, once something was noticed, it was always remembered and connected to other events.

It was a risk he could not take, so he raised the large walking stick in both hands, taking a quick step to the right so that he could get a better view of the woods. It was a step out of the protection that Lance had offered silently, and likely subconsciously. _I am no longer a prince,_ he thought to himself as he tightened his grip on the makeshift staff, _I need to be able to protect myself. I cannot expect others to._

He’d always been independent and extremely vocal about the fact that he didn’t want others to sacrifice themselves for him. Now, no one had an obligation to protect him. Even if Lance tried, Merlin had to be able to take care of himself.

Lance wouldn’t be around forever. Merlin had every intention to move on. Staying in one place would end badly for him, with his talents in a world that was eager to execute him for most of the things he was best at. He wasn’t about to bring that risk down on the necks of people like Lance.

The man who stepped out from behind the bushes was large, large enough that Merlin had to do a double-take, glancing between the bushes and the man who had a frame that seemed much too large to be able to be concealed completely by the foliage. Those thoughts and his general confusion were pushed aside when Merlin took in the man—the dark clothes, the sword which hung by his side, and the expression on his face.

The man looked like every bandit he’d seen in the past—and no bandit encounter ever ended well.

Merlin was nearly ready to attack, even though the man was large enough that one solid blow would probably knock him out for weeks, when he noticed Lance relaxing. His sword lowered, then fell to the ground as Lance collapsed back by the fire, merely nodding halfheartedly at the intruder.

Merlin didn’t let his guard down, even as Lance completely ignored the intruder. “Lance?”

Lance avoided both of their gazes, but his words were clearly meant for the other man, “Alerid. I told you I need some time alone. I was coming back in the morning.”

“And I agreed. Things have changed. One of the scouts saw a patrol with Lot’s crest pass by too close for comfort, so we’re moving camp in the morning. We’ll be gone by mid-morning, a bit to the south.” The man paused, his gaze flickering between Lance and Merlin, “Your…friend?”

“Passing through.” Lance said firmly. “He was being chased by another one of those strange creatures that have been appearing lately. That’s all.”

And, well, Merlin kept his mouth shut and his thoughts to himself as he watched the two exchange glances—glances that could mean anything. Lance seemed to be protecting him, but from what was a mystery. Clearly, there was a story that he was missing…a story that Lance hadn’t wanted to tell him.

It was much too late for keeping those sorts of secrets now. It was no secret, back home, that he was the curious sort. Now, he wanted answers.

Though, whether or not Lance gave him real answers was a bit of a toss-up, considering they’d only known each other for a few hours, but there was very little that could be worse than his immediate thoughts when he saw the bandit and Lance’s comfort in said bandit’s presence.

It was more likely than not that Merlin would get the real story.

The man disappeared back into the bushes. Merlin watched his retreat, tracing his path until his footsteps were indistinguishable from the sounds of the wild forest around them. Even as the sounds of the bandit faded, though, Merlin kept the silence. What was he supposed to say?

“Merlin…”

“No, Lance,” Merlin said after a moment. “I can’t be angry for the choices you’ve made. We hardly know each other. What you’ve done…is not important.”

“But it is important. You’re upset.”

“I cannot be angry.” Merlin repeated, knowing he sounded disapproving despite his words,. “Your choices are your own.”

“Even so, I’ve already begun to think of you as a friend, Merlin. There are few out here I could say that about. There’s something about you.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Merlin finished gathering the few meager possessions he’d had time to get out in the last few hours, tying the bag shut before he finally slung it over his shoulder. “I should be going. It’s dark and I have to find somewhere to sleep.”

“You don’t know everything.”

“Do I have to?”

Lance was silent.

“Those are bandits, Lance. I’m not blind and I’m not just a stupid kid. I’ve come across them before. I know people who were killed by them.” He paused. “You seem like a good person.”

“It’s not what it looks like. I had my doubts at first too.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes, but it’s not a simple as just pointing at them and calling them bandits. The group I’m with—they aren’t out to hurt anyone. We’re nomadic villagers, but most of the others have prices on their heads. Going home would be a death sentence.”

“Is that supposed to be better?”

“Perhaps.” When Merlin only raised a questioning eyebrow, Lance continued quickly, “Rowan was chased out of Camelot after her mother was executed for sorcery. She doesn’t have magic, but she can never show her face there again, or she’ll burn just like her mother, her brother, and both her younger sisters. Jaunwell stole some food when his daughter was starving to death. He escaped with his daughter who died three days later from an infection caused by an arrow wound she got as they fled. Causelwe was falsely accused of murdering her husband and now lives here with her five children, the oldest of whom is only just now coming of age…”

It was clear he would go on all day if Merlin let him, so the younger boy scowled lightly, stopping him with a shake of the head. He’d heard of nomadic villages before, and knew they mostly consisted of villagers who were on the run for various crimes. They were rare, but one could always find one, if they were desperate enough. There had been a long time suspicion that magic was involved, because no amount of fake distress ever produced any leads. His own parents had always been content to let them be, since they caused little harm and many of the people who were known to have joined them later turned out to be innocent. “I get it. I do. But I can’t just stay…”

Lance saw his struggle for words and smiled, “Come with me. Just…watch for a minute. Things aren’t always as simple as they seem.”

“I know.” Merlin looked at his own hands, clutched tight enough around the stick. His knuckles were white from the grip and he loosened them, sighing to himself. It was true that he knew very little about the situation. To judge Lance and the rest of the people he traveled with without knowing everything was against everything he’d ever been taught. Then again, so was sympathy towards bandits. “Fine. I’ll see. But I won’t promise anything.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to.”

They waited out the rest of the night without exchanging any further words, both boys too absorbed in their own thoughts to pay any mind to the other. Neither got much sleep and when they gathered their meager possessions the next morning, they were both completely exhausted.

When they arrived at the camp, Merlin looked around in fascination. It was chaotic—all around him, buildings were being torn down and packed neatly away. Before his very eyes, he watched all evidence of life within the large clearing disappear—to such an extent that magic was clearly being used, though he saw no outward evidence.

“Like I said, nomadic. We can tear down a camp in a few hours and set up elsewhere just as quick.”

“How long have you traveled with them? You keep switching between saying ‘we’ and ‘they’, like you’re not sure if you’re with them or not.”

“Oh,” he said, surprised, “I didn’t notice. It hasn’t been very long. A few months. I suppose I’m not really used to it yet.”

Every so often, one of the villagers would look over and wave at Lance. For the most part, they either disregarded Merlin completely, their eyes skipping over his presence, or they would frown, the weight of their gaze heavy and daunting. It was clear that strangers were not trusted here.

“They’re not bad people. Just, good people stuck in bad situations.”

It was the start of something that Merlin never expected. It took quite some time for the other villagers to fully trust him, after Lance went to the man most called their leader, though he denied the title, and convinced him that Merlin would be a beneficial addition to their group. It took ages for the hostility to bleed out of the other’s stiff shoulders, but when it did, the village was a completely different experience compared to the others he’d come across. Whereas elsewhere his lack of family started whispers about his parentage and whether his birth was a scandal or not, this camp was made of those who’d lost their own families. It was full of people who were in situations that forced them to flee their homes and kingdoms due to circumstances they couldn’t avoid.

Out of all the places he’d visited over the last half-year, this was the place that began to feel most like home.

It was a diverse place, full of people with different talents and skills. When he arrived, one of the first things he was told to do was find something he would be willing to take up, whether it be a craft like blacksmithing or tanning, or defensive like swordsmanship, or if one had the talent, magic.

Despite the magic that flowed through the land around him, Merlin reigned in his own, forcing it down and pleading for it to not react to the ambient atmosphere. He wasn’t a known sorcerer—he wouldn’t out himself to a village that, while nice enough, was full of characters that could talk.

He had the power, but he would not confirm it. 

Neither was he willing to outwardly show his talents with weapons, which would certainly raise eyebrows and bring up questions he was not willing to answer. There was no way he could fake being terrible, not after he worked so hard to get his body working and flowing through the moves correctly. His own methods and style would reveal him to be a noble at the very least.

“I can’t hold a sword to save my life. I’m all limbs.” Merlin lied to Lance. The other boy looked just as puzzled with the situation.

“Can you read?”

That wasn’t as bad a question to answer—plenty of peasants could read. Maybe not well, but they could put words on a page.

“A bit.” He was excellent, actually. A prince, and future king, was expected to be able to read well. 

It turned out that it was just as hard to fake a lack of ability to read well was just as difficult as faking not knowing how to fight. They caught on right away that he was hiding something, especially after they caught him translating a book that no one there had been able to until that point.

They, he figured out as he traveled with Lance for the next few years, were quite different from bandits. The group of people made up a small, but close-knit family that traveled for the majority of their time, never spending longer than a few months in one location for fear of being caught.

There were a few, mostly children, in the camp who’d never been convicted of a crime, but they would be charged with consorting with known criminals. It all made for a group of individuals who were willing to do just about anything to keep each other safe. Fear was a strong motivator.

Despite the fear that managed to hold the ramshackle village together, it was here that Merlin realized that just because he was bound against ever returning home, it didn’t mean he couldn’t made something of his life. He would never be any more than a peasant, despite his skills. He would live a life away from a castle, and away from the kingdom that he was raised to rule.

He wasn’t sure if he had a purpose in this new world, which remained so unfamiliar, but if he did, he was determined to find it.

Still, things changed. After only a year, the tentative leader, Alerid, died and the entire camp suddenly was rife with mistrust. He’d been found dead one morning, but rumors quickly floated that it was murder and that fragile trust that was built up around them came crashing down. The safe haven soon became a place which attracted attention it couldn’t afford. Other bandits and knights from Cenred’s kingdom alike attacked them, within a fortnight and the entire camp disbanded, the members fleeing in every direction in order to escape the sting of blade or magic against flesh.

They were a peaceful village and few could actually wield a sword. The magic that was available to most of the sorcerers were child’s tricks.

It was this way that he and Lance were finally separated—the last time he saw the older boy was just before Cenred’s knights were upon them. Lance flashed a grim smile, just before joining the fight. Merlin desperately hoped that his friend made it out alive. 

A few weeks later, he found Ealdor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merlin is 13-15 in these lost years.


	10. Chapter Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, school is kicking my butt. But here's another chapter ;)

I'll find you somewhere  
I'll keep on trying until my dying day  
I just need to know whatever has happened  
The truth will free my soul  
Lost in the darkness, try to find your way home  
 **Somewhere – Within Temptation**

* * *

A lady, pretty despite her obvious age shown in the small beginnings of the wrinkles that bracketed her bright eyes, was standing by a window, her hand caressing the creases around the window and she stared out into the darkness without truly seeing a thing. She was clearly distracted by her thoughts and an occasional sigh would escape her.

The town was nearly empty, most survivors having already fled at some point over the years. The only sign of life below her was the flickering torches carried by the few guards that remained after the attacks. The rest were in the woods, waiting for her and her husband—waiting for anything.

She hated this lack of hope—she hated watching her people die in front of her for a cause she still didn’t understand. She hated these faceless attackers that had taken everything from her over the years.

They’d taken her security first, as well as her husband’s self-assurance. All those attacks before the war truly began had stripped them of everything—and they’d taken so many lives to prove a point that they never really succeeded in getting across. Those attacks had proved that the kingdom’s security measures were not infallible—and so they’d taken away the blind faith that many of their people had once had.

They took her son second. He’d disappeared without a trace, in a place where he was suppose to feel safe. The knight tasked with guarding him was gone as well, but blood had been found. She deeply suspected that it had been the knight’s. Half-ashamed to do so, she only hoped that it wasn’t her son’s life that bled away on the floor. But he was gone—only his ring and sigil left to prove that he once had a place in the castle, by her and her husband’s side.

So many lives were lost over the years as the attacks continued. Knights, noblemen, and peasants alike were attacked and killed. Children were taken from their homes and found dead by their parents the next morning, stripped of any life. Torture was popular among the other side and some of what she’d seen over the years sickened her.

She hoped her son wasn’t laid out like that, his bones rotting away somewhere because they never found him…never gave him the proper sending off.

And now, they’d taken her kingdom—her home. She and her husband had actually fled the castle itself the week before, but since there were curses placed on enemies who dared to try to claim the castle as their own, the sorcerers who were leading the other side only patrolled the castle occasionally, never daring to take up residence. The curse had been on the castle for many years—and no attackers had ever defeated it.

It was safe there that night, so they had returned to take their last few possessions until they could build up the men and resources to take back her home.

“We will, one day.” she said quietly to herself as her eyes cleared and cast her eyes downward for any other sight of movement, but the three guards remained alone. “We will come back.”

“Hunith?”

Despite the situation, she turned and smiled, drawing her husband into her arms as they embraced, each using each other to take the bite off of each other’s pain. “Balinor.” She breathed into his neck, keeping him close to her.

Every day she feared losing him as they had already lost their son. Every time he went to battle, she was more and more aware of the aches that old age was beginning to give him—the slower movement and delayed reaction time that came with training and fighting for forty years.

“Are you ready to leave? The preparations have been made.”

She pulled away, reluctantly letting her arms fall to her side. Her eyes ran across the room one more time, imprinting it in her memory. “This was his room.” She murmured, mostly to herself. Despite the fact that the castle had been abandoned, it hadn’t been fully looted yet. Her son’s room was one of the few that remained intact, but it probably wouldn’t stay that way for much longer.

“Hunith…” Balinor started, but only shook his head.

He’d closed off since their son’s disappearance. Merlin had meant a lot to his father—they’d both raised the little boy to be a better ruler than either of them had ever been. The people loved the little prince, and his birth had been one of the most exciting things that ever happened to the kingdom. He’d always been such a strong child.

Taking away the prince had taken away quite a bit of hope at the beginning, both for the people and the king and queen themselves.

The day of Merlin’s disappearance had been the only time Hunith had ever seen her husband cry.

So she steeled herself, pulling her wits back into place, and nodded, “Has there been any reply from the other kingdoms yet?”

“We’ve received replies from all but three. They all refuse to have any part in our war.”

“Not unexpected.” She replied, dismay sinking into her stomach. To have received those replies already meant that the kings hadn’t thought twice about saying no to their pleas. “Who hasn’t sent word?”

“Essetir, Mercia, and,” Balinor paused, for a moment, “and surprisingly, Camelot. Though we should probably assume King Arthur intends to ignore the request alltogether. Even if he was open to magic, he is a relatively new king who will probably be focused on his own kingdom.”

“King Lot or Bayard.” Hunith wasn’t sure which one was worse. Dracaene hadn’t had any occasion to meet Lot, but rumors had it that he was very similar to Cenred. Bayard and Balinor, on the other hand, had many disputes over the years. Neither Lot nor Bayard were very likely to lend support, and Camelot was even less likely.

“Indeed.” Balinor seemed even less enthused by the prospect than his wife and queen.

“Can we win this without aid?” Hunith questioned, feeling like a traitor for saying the words out loud. “They are so strong. And we haven’t even seen the faces of those who are leading this attack against us. We don’t even have _names_.”

“What we need,” Balinor said, pulling his wife to the bed their son once laid in and sitting them both down on the covers. “is a chance to get more magic-users on our side. But nearly all have long since fled.”

“They even chose to go to kingdoms where they could be executed for their natural talents. You remember my old handmaiden, Amaya?”

“I believed so. She left last year didn’t she? The young one who liked to magic up birds for the other children?” He cast back his memory, but he only remembered her vaguely—she’d only been his wife’s maidservant for a few months before the war drove her away as it had so many others.

Those with magic were the worst targets—they were given the choice to join the other side or they were killed, after watching their families be murdered before their eyes. It was no wonder that most of the magical and nonmagical population had either fled or taken to secret places in the woods surrounding the castle that were warded carefully be the few sorcerers and sorceresses that they did have.

“I received a letter a few days ago. She’s living in _Camelot_ now. She claims she hasn’t seen a sorcerer executed yet.”

If it was possible, Balinor’s eyebrows would have shot to the ceiling. “She has remarkable talents and very little self-control in regards to her magic. Camelot is perhaps the worst place for her.”

“She’s not the only one who has chosen that path.”

“I need a _new_ approach. That’s the only way we’ll be ever to succeed.” Balinor rested his forehead on his head, suddenly looking much older and tired than she’d ever seen him. “Everything is ready downstairs. Are you ready to leave?”

Hunith smiled sadly, only nodding. They stood and left their son’s room one last time. Hunith looked back to take in the familiar chambers one more time before she blew out the candle by the door and followed her husband into their uncertain future.

She could only hope that one of the kingdoms answered their pleas.

* * *

Arthur was just an indecisive the following day, still debating whether the risks of helping the wayward king and queen were worth the possible benefits. Merlin, however, remained just as unhelpful—though he would deny it—deflecting Arthur questions with ease.

“How are you going to reply then? Just no?”

Arthur rolled his eyes, “Even though they claim that a yes or no would be satisfactory, I doubt it actually is. That was probably added so that if I said no, I could just say so without any insults or the like. A yes would make the answer more complex. Terms. Agreements. Things a useless manservant could never hope to understand.”

But Merlin caught the meaning behind Arthur’s first statement and simply stored away the retaliation for the insult for a later time, “So, you’re saying yes?”

“No!”

“No?”

“Yes!”

“ _Yes_?”

“Merlin!”

“What?” He grinned widely. His king’s hand was clenched tightly around the writing instrument, as if he was debating whether or not throwing it was worth the complaints that would doubtless come along with the action.

“I don’t _know_.” Arthur threw his hands up, sending the quill across the room, luckily not towards Merlin.

Merlin watched it fly in amusement. When he looked back at Arthur again, the young king was scowling. 

The servant, though it would be more apt to call him a friend, retrieved the quill silently, placing it next to the crisp piece of parchment that was still devoid of any writing. Several copies were already crumpled around the table. Arthur watched silently, his anger settling.

“What do you think about magic? Since you won’t say anything at all about all this.” He made a rather vague motion over the papers. “I can’t pin anything on you. For years, I’ve thought you were terrified of it. Then you do something stupidly brave and I don’t know what to think.”

Merlin was quiet at first. It wasn’t a completely unexpected question, though it seemed to come from nowhere. He weighed his choices, but he had no real fear of magic and there was no point in lying—not about this. “I’m not scared of magic.” That was almost laughable, actually. Maybe once, he’d been terrified of the feeling that bubbled beneath his skin, wanting only to be used, but that time had passed long before he met Arthur. Maybe he feared what having magic could cause—namely his execution or banishment—but that wasn’t a fear of magic itself.

“Then what? You aren’t from Camelot. Laws aren't as strict there.”

“Essetir frowned on magic too. And maybe there weren’t laws, but we were close enough to Camelot that the fear and prejudice reached there as well.” Not a lie, but definitely not the truth Arthur was wanting. “I knew of some, with magic.” He said carefully, keeping his eyes on the floor and as far away from Arthur as possible. Still, he saw Arthur sit up further in his chair, in interest. “I—I never saw it as good or bad. You always have a choice between good and bad, same with kings, and peasants, and sorcerers.”

“You have stood by my side and agreed with me when I have claimed that magic was evil.”

“Yes.”

Arthur, for once, didn’t look angry. “Why?”

“Why?” Merlin asked, a bit incredulous, “You were the crowned _prince of Camelot_ , Arthur, and now you’re the king. I had opinions that I could die for, if they were heard by the wrong ears. Sympathizers are burned just as often as sorcerers. I—” _I’m terrified of fire, Arthur. I’m afraid of dying before I can fulfill the destiny. I’m afraid that I will fail my parents…Albion…you._ But he could say none of that. “You had your reasons for thinking that magic was evil at the time.”

“But you didn’t think so.”

“No.”

“Just when I think I’ve figured you out…” Arthur sighed, scratching the quill against the table in frustration. “What would you do, in my position?”

“Not in your position, am I?” Merlin said cheekily, with one of his trademark smiles. Arthur threw one of the crumpled papers, but Merlin ducked beneath the projectile.

“Honestly, Merlin.”

Merlin weighed his options, his eyes never wavering from the king he’d come to respect and admire…not that he would admit that to said king. He had a big enough ego as it was.

On one hand, Arthur was honestly considering making a big move in regards to his stance on magic. Even thinking about allowing a king and queen who avidly supported magic into his walls was like admitting that there was something more. If not a small belief that magic may not be evil, then at the very least he was moving towards an understanding, and that was big. Allowing an opportunity like this to pass by…well, he _couldn’t_. “I believe in second chances, sire.”

“You would let them in Camelot, then.” Arthur had been considering that possibility, Merlin knew that much, but how far had that consideration gone?

“I would meet them. Determine what kind of people they are. So, yes.” He said the last words cautiously, as though testing the waters, but the expression on Arthur’s face never went past a solemn acceptance of his most trusted servant’s words.

“I don’t have the best record for being a good judge of character.” Arthur said. That was true.

That was very true.

Merlin wavered, thinking of all the betrayal’s Arthur had seen—Sophia was one of the very first, but since then there’d been Morgana, Agravaine, and Gwen, to an extent. Even Uther’s actions could have been considered a betrayal. Each of them affected Arthur differently, but some of the people he’d been closest to had turned on him.

Morgana’s magic.

Agravaine siding _with_ Morgana.

Arthur catching Gwen with Lancelot was only one of the more recent betrayals—one that took ages for him to calm down enough to accept the fact that Gwen’s heart never truly belonged to him.

“But you have your knights. Gaius. Me.”

“ _Wonderful_.”

“Hey. I’ll have you know I’ve saved your life all the time. _And_ I’m a great judge of character.”

“Of course you are, Merlin.” Arthur snorted in mirth at the thought of _Merlin_ saving his life and the young warlock had to bite his tongue to keep back a retort that he would definitely regret later.

Arthur was almost about to put quill to paper again when there was a sudden knock on Arthur’s door. He didn’t even have time to exclaim in shock when the ink tip and spills all over his lap, leaving Merlin snickering behind him when the door opens and Gwaine and Lancelot strode in quickly.

“Bandits, princess.” Gwaine said loudly, while Lancelot took in Arthur’s ink stained trousers with a strange look on his face.

“What about them?” Arthur snapped, attempting to take care of the mess. Merlin rolled his eyes, then took over before Arthur rubbed the ink deeper into his clothes and forced Merlin to resort to magic to get rid of the stains—in private, of course.

“Scared a couple of nobles who went for a morning ride silly.” Gwaine was trying—and failing spectacularly—not to laugh, “Supposedly a hundred-strong, if the nobles are to be believed. Less than half a league from here.”

“Bandits don’t come this close to the castle.”

“Exactly.” Lancelot finally spoke up, “Even if the rest of their story is…difficult to believe, I don’t know why they would exaggerate the distance. Even if they are…”

“The bandits are still too close for comfort.” Arthur finished.

“Percival and a few others are taking a look now, Sire. They wanted to make sure no others are attacked before we got to inform you.” Lance finished, then stood awaiting orders. He and Arthur had been rather stiff towards each other since Gwen affections had come to light, but Arthur was slowly coming around. Lancelot had almost reverted to a stranger—probably because of the guilt Merlin knew he felt.

Merlin finished cleaning the ink mess, sighing mentally. They wouldn’t be going hunting, it seemed. Instead, bandits would be their intended target.

Probably the same group of bandits who had attacked him the day before. _Thank the gods I had a disguise on yesterday._ He was rather distinct and the last thing he needed right now was for a bandit to tell Arthur Merlin’s biggest secret.

“I’ll join them. Merlin. Armor.”

“Yes, yes.” Merlin rolled his eyes, glad he’d found time to do the polishing the night before. It was always nice to see his hard work get dragged through the mud…quite literally. “ _Prat_.” He added under his breath.

“Come _on_ , Merlin.”

* * *

Within the hour, Arthur, Gwaine, Lancelot, and Merlin were riding in the direction indicated by the two shaken nobles who were quite adamant that a group of bandits that size was bad news for Camelot. They left the nobles in the care of Gaius, who was sourly explaining that there was very little he could do for them since _they_ _weren’t actually injured_.

Not a mark on them,

_Seriously_.

They met up with Percival, Elyan, Leon, and a few other newer knights within a league of the castle. Bodies were scattered across the ground—perhaps ten. Regardless, it was nowhere near the hundred that the nobles were claiming. Only one bandit was still alive, tied to a tree despite the injury that had pierced his side.

Merlin didn’t have to get any closer to know that this injury was a mortal one. No physician could heal such a wound. It was probably even beyond magic now.

What was worse—he recognized the bandit from the day before. It was the leader, Caelen, who Merlin had been sure he’d killed along with the other two. Obviously he’d dismissed the scene too quickly. It was probably going to come back to hurt him now.

Arthur looked at the scene appraisingly, averting his eyes from the dead in respect that Merlin doubted they deserved, “Leon?” He motioned towards the gruesome field, “What happened here?”

“They saw us coming and attacked us. Five were here initially, another five came from the trees. They were not difficult to beat.” Leon motioned towards the remaining bandit, “That one claimed to have information you would want to hear. We kept him alive in case you wanted to hear what he had to say.”

“Hmm.” Arthur watched the bandit critically for a moment. “I think I need to know why bandits believed they could get so close to the citadel without retribution on my part.”

“If you’re sure.” Leon agreed, but didn’t look so sure himself.

Merlin felt the unease rise in his stomach again. This could not end well—there was simply no way. Merlin’s bad luck was going to rear its ugly head again.

“I am.” Arthur nodded, then strode over the bandit. The rest of the knights stayed where they were, but kept a careful eye on their king. While the knights were occupied, Merlin lowered his head, muttering a quick spell that would make it possible to hear the conversation as if he was standing beside them.

“What business have you in Camelot?” Arthur’s back was turned, so Merlin couldn’t see the impassive expression on Arthur face, but he could see Caelen’s face twist into a strange smile. The wound on his face made the smile look horrific.

“What a privilege,” Caelen spat blood at Arthur shoe, but it missed by a mile. This time, Merlin could practically feel the tension in the air, “the _king_. The darling king of Camelot. I would bow, but I’m a bit tied up right now. _Sire_.”

If it was possible, the bandit managed to say the word with more scorn than Merlin ever did. Then again, Merlin didn’t _actually_ hate Arthur.

Arthur only leaned down, resting his elbows on his knees, and his chin on his hands, and continued to appraise the bandit, “I can’t think of any reason why anyone would be that stupid. To come so close to Camelot and expect to survive.”

The bandit scowled, leaning forward. If the ropes hadn’t held him back, Merlin was sure Caelen would try to rip Arthur’s face off, injury be damned. After a few moments of hopeless struggling, the bandit collapsed backward, a thin sheen of sweat visible on his face. “You’re out here, worrying about little old me. “ Caelen laughed.

Once again, Arthur only raised his eyebrow. He really had been spending too much time with Gaius. He had to keep those two away from each other somehow…

“Yesterday, I watched a sorcerer walk in—into Camelot and you’re out here worrying about me.”

A few knights shifted, as those last words had been loud enough that everyone heard and the mention of magic put everyone on guard.

“Powerful…little bugger. Killed…two of us without a word. Tried…t-to kill…me too.” Caelen continued laughing, his face turning a shade of red that didn’t look natural on a human. “He said…he knew the castle… _well enough,_ even…offered to help _,_ and you’ve brought everyone out here to worry about…me.”

He struggled through the last word, his grasp on both life and sanity starting to slip visibly. Without another word, he slumped over, eyes crazed even as death claimed him as its own. Merlin closed his eyes, feeling the connection between the physical plane and the soul, as dirtied as it was, snap painfully as it slipped away from its former body.

Arthur stood without another word, rubbing his temples vigorously, as if he was trying to ward away a headache. He probably was. “Worst thing is,” Arthur finally said, looking towards the knights, “I can’t decide whether or not he was lying.”

“He wanted you uncomfortable,” Lancelot noted, putting away his sword. As if one, the rest of the knights did the same, since the danger had clearly passed “If it is true, that’s why he told you. He wanted you to fear your own safety. Saying the last part, the sorcerer knowing the castle well. It can really only have one purpose.”

“He doesn’t want you to trust anyone.” Leon finished, clearly having determined that himself.

“And if it is true?” Arthur said quietly, in a tone that suggested that he wanted no answer. All of the knights caught onto the warning and exchanged cautious glances. None of them said a word.

Merlin watched the proceedings quietly, an uncomfortable feeling stirring in his gut. He was the sole person in the clearing who knew that the bandit died with the truth still cooling on his lips, but he also the person who wanted Arthur and his knights to believe that the entire conversation was the ramblings of a dying mad man, who made his living from crime and killing.

“He said…” Lancelot said, “that this person knew the castle well? If they knew the castle, why haven’t they done something?”

No one said anything to that, clearly all deep in thought. While Arthur and the knights were preoccupied, Merlin sent Lancelot a small smile of thanks (which likely turned out to look more like a grimace), receiving only a short nod in return.

That was plenty.

Arthur was quiet, “As far as I’m concerned, there is no threat right now. _That_ has been taken care of.” He cast a look down at the body, “Be wary, but don’t seek out trouble. I hardly want to waste time and resources on the words of a man who made his living by lying, cheating, and killing. Should any of you come across anything or anyone suspicious, do not take action. Come to me directly.”

“Of course, sire.” Leon said, while the others followed quickly with their own vows to do so.

Merlin was the only one to stay silent, but since that was hardly out of the ordinary, no one took any notice to the complete lack of response.


End file.
